


All Cats are Wonwoo in the Dark

by Anonymous



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Fortune Telling, Inspired by Harry Potter, Korean mythology & folklore, M/M, Magic School, Multi, Platonic bed sharing, Shamanism, Shapeshifting, Slice of Life, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:05:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9892610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Wonwoo's not an existentialist, but finding out that magic is real makes it hard to know what to expect.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yoonbot (iverins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iverins/gifts).



> Dear recipient,  
> There are no excuses now - only apologies. Many of them. I doubt this is anything like what you were expecting, but I hope it's enjoyable all the same.

 

The ride from Changwon to Busan in the air-conditioned bus takes forty minutes.

The flight from Busan to Jeju City (his first, inside a tiny pressurized container! flying way above the ground! where anything could go wrong! at any second!) takes another forty minutes.

And then the underground cruise down the river of lava from the city to _Gwaneumsa School and Shrine_ takes way less than forty minutes, but when Jeon Wonwoo reaches the end of the lava tubes, it’s with a stiffness in his limbs and itchiness under his skin, all symptoms of that disease called restlessness you contract from being contained for too long.

Moving through the hot tunnels inside a transparent sphere had made it obvious how close the walls of the volcano pressed in on you from every direction. He’d tried to distract himself from the thought of a stalactite (or is it stalagmites that hang from above? he can never remember) crushing him by paying attention to his book, but the gentle rocking made his stomach roll as if he were on a ship tossed by fierce waves instead of on a leisurely floating orb, and he’d spent the rest of the journey staring down at his canvas sneakers while trying to ignore the hushed conversations around him.

When he steps outside of the drifting capsule and sees open sky again, it’s to inhale clean air and exhale claustrophobia.

The side of the mountain shoots down then up then out of sight, the patchy green mosaic of mosses and shrubs, trees and dehydrated grass stretching endlessly before his eyes. Some of the others from his boat (orb was a better word for it, really) have already joined the line up through the main gate, adding to the already considerable clamor of students, the old and new voices humming harmoniously, ready for a new school year.

Wonwoo lingers, his weedy arms now devoid of their burden (there was a horse and wagon to carry everyone’s luggage – an actual horse! with nastier teeth than any of the novels he’d read had ever mentioned), leaving him free to wander around the front grounds.

He stoops down to face level with a _hareubang_ , peering right into its mottled cold grey eyes as his fingers rub the tops of the miniature ones surrounding it. The stone is unexpectedly warm to the touch, and seems to vibrate against his skin. He takes the photo of the family of statues without a problem, but when he tries to send it to his brother with the caption ‘ _cute!_ ’, the loading bar on his flip-phone gets stuck two-thirds of the way. Wonwoo’s eyebrows draw together, and he tries, squinting at the screen, to send another message, informing his parents of his safe arrival.

“You’ll have a hard time getting signal out here when there’s so much _gashin_ interference,” says a gentle voice. Wonwoo’s head snaps up to see a middle-aged man in brightly colored traditional dress holding out his arms. “Your parents know you’re accounted for. Come now, Wonwoo- _goon_ , it’s time for your _naerim-gut_.”

Wonwoo doesn’t know how the man knows his name, but then, up until his thirteenth birthday, he also didn’t know that _magic_ was a real thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The initiation rite unfolds nothing like the _Muism_ rituals depicted in soap operas on TV. No one’s possessed for one thing, nor is anyone ill or hallucinating before their initiation. And instead of colorful fabric, all of the first year students are given white _hanbok_ to put on before the purification.

Wonwoo fidgets throughout the trance-inducing music, not because he can’t sit still, but because if he doesn’t move he’ll fall asleep.

He has no idea what he’s doing. Whoever’s leading the ritual chants does so in a calming voice, but it’s unintelligible. While he doesn’t know what’s being said, he can follow along with what the others are doing well enough, burning his sheaf of pristine white paper when appropriate and drinking rice wine from the same bowl used by the dozen or so others before passing it to the next initiate.

After that they’re told to pray.

Wonwoo glances right and then left, but everyone’s eyes are closed and he can’t see into their heads to figure out what they’re thinking. Pray? For what? To whom? Wonwoo’s prayed precisely twice in his life before this, once when he’d broken the model truck toy belonging to his brother, hoping that it would magically repair itself overnight so he wouldn’t get in trouble, and another time for his dentist to suddenly get very ill and have to cancel their appointment. The Gods had never answered his prayers.

‘ _Hello?_ ’ Wonwoo tries tentatively, thinking as loudly as the voice in his head will go, fingers and palms pressed tightly together.

His eyes snap open and he whips his head around at the the sudden murmur in his ear, whispery and airy, almost toneless, that replies, “ _Welcome, young one_.” But no one else is looking up, and the voice simply chuckles. “ _We’ve been waiting for you_.”

 _We_? Who’s ‘we’? And why would they be waiting for Wonwoo of all people?

“ _Why, you’re one of our friends. It is foretold._ ” The breeze picks up, ruffling Wonwoo’s bangs to fall in the other direction. He scrunches his nose at the tickling sensation.

“ _Yah_ , we’re moving.” A boy with a bowlcut and a bored expression taps at Wonwoo’s back, sending him stumbling forward blearily, carried along by the tide of people around him. The students with rings of yellow, blue, and red carry on through a stone entryway, while the current of white robes flows toward a man wearing an enormous _gat_ handing out slips of paper.

Wonwoo accepts his, clutching the assignment with vertical characters for ‘ _Maechang 24_ ’ before setting off in search of his dorm. When he finally finds the right room number in the central block of buildings, he stops at the doorway, staring at his belongings piled neatly on top of a thick, simply patterned _yo_ , across from a matching set with someone else’s possessions.

“ _Yah_ , you’re standing still again.”

Wonwoo doesn’t apologize, but he shuffles over to let the other boy inside.

It’s the kid with the bowlcut who was behind him in the _naerim-gut_. He doesn’t say a word either while sorting through his things, nor does he speak when they head down the front hall together to the taps for washing up before bed. Wonwoo burns to ask how he knew where the bathrooms were if he was a first year as well, but he’s not desperate enough to open his mouth first and settles with being grateful that he didn’t have to ask for directions.

Only when they’re both tucked into the warm blankets, bowlcut boy scribbling into a small bound notebook, Wonwoo nestled into the pillows reading his own book, are the first words exchanged between them.

“Sartre? I never would have predicted I’d room with an existentialist.”

Wonwoo tears his eyes from the translated sentence and blinks at the boy. He shrugs, after the words process, chest puffing up at doing the unexpected. It’s no fun being predictable, after all.

“Aren’t you too young to feel ‘condemned to freedom’, or whatever?”

“Aren’t _you_?” Wonwoo retorts. He’s thirteen, not a middle-aged man. He doesn’t have a personal philosophy, he just wants to read books with unfamiliar words and vaguely intelligent content that, more importantly, makes him seem intelligent. He believes everything he reads, a little bit, easily impressed by ostentation although he won’t admit it.

“I never said I was an existentialist.”

“Neither did I.”

“Point,” Bowlcut concedes.

Winning makes Wonwoo grin, and he bares his teeth while closing the book. “What’s your name?”

“Lee Jihoon,” Bowlcut says, after a short pause.

“Nice to meet you, Lee Jihoon. I’m Jeon Wonwoo.”

Jihoon shimmies down and pulls the blankets up to his chin. “Ch. I never asked.” He looks over, takes in Wonwoo’s affronted look, and laughs. “Night, Jeon.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And so one can learn to work with everything, you see, for everything has a spirit. A soul. The paper on which you take notes, the wind which rustles the pages, and the room which the wind enters. We have a word for this phenomenon, it’s—”

“Animism,” Jihoon says.

It’s their first class of the year and Wonwoo’s hair is frazzled from turning this way and that to chase after the discussion. They’re learning the fundamentals of magic, but the _sessumu_ have already heard all this before, inheriting their knowledge and power from shamanist parents and explaining basic concepts with bored expressions or simply staring out the windows to the lush greens outside.

“Quite correct,” says Professor Park, whom Wonwoo recognizes as the man with the enormous _gat_ from the _naerim-gut_. He walks back and forth across the front of the room sans hat now, and the grey in his hair matches that of his scruffy beard, a sparkle of silver peppering the black. With each swivel, the hem of his _hanbok_ brushes lightly against the floor, fabric creasing until he resumes his forward pacing. “And we can harness the energies of these spirits, ask them for assistance, protection, favors. Everyday tasks like washing rice or combing hair, or complicated ones like healing broken bones or transporting us great distances. We can command them to leave, banish them for a time, from a place. But the world around us is very much alive. And you cannot control things that are alive, not truly. They have their own motives, just as each of us has ours.”

The whispery voice starts speaking again, making Wonwoo jump. “ _The old geezer. If you’re one of our friends, we’ll help you. Don’t worry._ ”

Wonwoo frowns, looking askance around him only to see that no one else seems to register the voices.

“ _You’re not going crazy either. We’re not their friends, we’re yours. Pay attention, this part’s important._ ”

Up in the front, Professor Park is describing their assignment. “We’ll begin with levitation charms. The goal is to channel your energy so that it synchronizes with that of the object whose spirit you need something from. You must be kind, but firm. The _gashin_ can sense uncertainty, but they do not appreciate rudeness. Once you have established a connection between your spirits, you need only to ask: ‘ _Up_ ’.”

As soon as he thinks the word, the eraser on Wonwoo’s desk begins wobbling in time with the twitch of his fingers.

“How are you doing that? Why isn’t mine moving?” asks the girl to Wonwoo’s right, Myungeun, voice trembling with worry, her finger thrust in the direction of her own pencil, which remains unmoving on the desk. It’s thrumming, emitting a dull keening noise in contrast to the pleasant hum of Wonwoo’s eraser.

“You’re intimidating it – can’t you hear?” It must be something to do with the spirituality of the school, but Wonwoo’s been hearing all kinds of things since arriving at this school. Murmuring stone walls, tooting kettles, whistling faucets, clattering dishes.

“ _No, we’ve always been around, you just haven’t been paying attention. You listened to us when you were a baby though, back when you weren’t convinced_ gashin _weren’t real._ ”

“All I can hear is your incessant nattering,” Jihoon mutters, lazily resting his jaw on one hand, the other spinning his own pencil in slow circles as it hovers just above his desk.

Wonwoo’s about to ask how Jihoon’s doing it, then, if he doesn’t hear anything, but Myungeun’s pencil stabs itself into her desk and everyone gets distracted by her scream and watching the wood splinter and explode.

(Jihoon, instead of helping the others pick up the pieces, just cackles.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Lee Jihoon…Busan…how come I’ve never heard of you before?” Choi Seungcheol is particularly well-loved for a second year, the kind of person who older students consider one of their own, inviting him for soccer games on the lawn, and who the young students all look up to, daring each other to sit closer to him at meals, and who’s friends with everyone in their year. It’s not hard to see why. His voice, warm and gentle, envelops Wonwoo in a hug, and makes the upcoming Korean history test seem small and insignificant.

(The _gashin_ take offense to that sentiment, spending their time swirling around Wonwoo all day, so he’s never really alone. But they’re just sensitive, and Wonwoo’s annoyed at them anyway, for being too loud while he was trying to read his book at night.)

Jihoon snorts. “There’s three and a half million people in Busan. Do you know all of them?” He asks, eyebrows arched.

Seungcheol takes the challenge like it’s a case for him to work on, smiling so much his eyes disappear behind long, dark eyelashes that tickle the air spirits every time he blinks. “Of course not, but all the shaman families know each other. I must’ve visited every shrine in the city while on vacation there as a child, but we’ve never met, have we?”

“Ch. I’m not from a shaman family,” Jihoon says, rolling his eyes. “What gave you that idea?”

Two sets of eyelashes spread apart, Seungcheol’s eyes widening with surprise. “You’re _kangshinmu_?”

That’s news to Wonwoo too, who looks over at Jihoon, feigning lack of interest, but seeing him in a new light. News of the star first year spread fast through the _hanok_ , even the teachers not above rumor-spreading when it came to the kid who was eerily good at everything at first try, whether it was tea or calligraphy, summoning or banishing, defensive or attack spells. He memorized dates easily, scored well on all the theory exams and then aced the practicals right after. Jihoon was first in all of their classes, although Wonwoo was giving him a run for his money in anything that required the _gashin_ ’s investment, and Wonwoo had always assumed it had been because Jihoon was inherited magic, not learned.

Jihoon squirms under Seungcheol’s intense gaze, making a ‘what?’ face at Wonwoo before staring down into his food. With his neck shrunken uncomfortably, and his voice projected into the table, it’s hard to make out the mumbled, “I didn’t know anything before coming here, had to make it up as I went.”

Seungcheol whistles, loud and clear. “Not that I don’t think learned magicians can be powerful, since this one,” here he pats Jeonghan’s shoulder (who continues to nap with his head planted face-first into the table), “passes everything without really trying…It’s not the same level, though. You’re a _genius_.”

“Shut up,” Jihoon says, heedless that he’s talking to a senior. “No I’m not.”

“Lee Ji Hoon,” Wonwoo says. And then, in English: “ _Lea_ ve me alone, _Ge_ nius _kangshinmu_ , _Who_ mever would have thought?”

Jihoon inhales, really to heave a sigh, but he stops at the top of his breath and closes his mouth. The corners of his lips flit downward briefly and his chin dips in a slight nod. He cracks a smile. “Getting better, Jeon.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were learned and not _sessumu_?” Wonwoo stares up into the murky black, eyes focusing where he guesses the ceiling to be. He’d stayed up late, revising for the _dodang-gut_ exam (the best students from each class were invited to observe the prosperity ceremony, and some of the older students got real roles), but it’s even later now, after passing hours awake in bed. It wasn’t the first time exam anxiety made him too nervous to sleep. Sometimes the _gashin_ would keep him up, rustling his blankets. Sometimes the bed spirits were stronger, and lulled him into sleep while shushing the others and fending off disturbances. The past few weeks, all of the spirits had been muted, as if sensitive to Wonwoo’s blunted mood and general lethargy.

For a moment, there’s only silence for an answer. Then:

“Why are you still awake?”

Wonwoo half expected one of the _gashin_ to call him out on talking to himself, but he really did not expect Jihoon to be the one to do the honor.

“You’re awake too,” Wonwoo accuses.

“Yeah. You woke me up.” A rustle. “Have you been hung up on this for all this time?”

“I don’t think so. I’m having an existential crisis. Asking all kinds of things to myself now.”

Jihoon bursts out laughing and slaps a hand to his forehead, any sound ringing unnervingly loud in the silence. “Too much Sartre.”

Wonwoo blinks. “So. What’s the reason anyway?”

“I didn’t know it was something you were supposed to tell people. You never asked. We talk about school and stuff, but this late-night heart-to-heart is kind of weird.”

“Yeah but…” Wonwoo trails off. “Did you know I was _kangshinmu_?”

Jihoon sighs. “Not until recently. I was surprised too, you know, you’re like the _gashin_ whisperer or something.”

Wonwoo _is_ the _gashin_ whisperer, but he doesn’t know if they’re at a stage where they can talk about something like that. Jihoon’s right, they don’t talk about real things. Not that homework isn’t real, but, you know, the important things. Actual things. They’re roommates but they spend most of their time together in the library, studying, or making snarky remarks about people behind their back. “Jihoon,” he says seriously. “What are we? Can we be friends?”

Silence greets Wonwoo’s ears. Even the _gashin_ are silent, tensely anticipating the answer as much as Wonwoo himself.

“I thought…I thought we were already friends,” Jihoon says. His voice is small. Tiny. Completely devoid of emotion.

“ _You’ve hurt him,_ ” the _gashin_ say needlessly. Wonwoo knows.

It’s true that they spend the most time together. Rain or shine, Wonwoo sees Jihoon every day. But Jihoon is…Jihoon is careful diligence, and seriousness about his studies. He’s griping about the weather and the noise and settling down into his seat in class. He snorts at some of Wonwoo’s quips and produces his own, but he doesn’t know that before the magic business, Wonwoo had wanted to go into literature, which Myungeun had asked about once, when they were bored in music. He doesn’t know about the time Wonwoo fell into the lake when he was four that made him hate fish and Soonyoung laugh whenever they had seafood for dinner. But then, Wonwoo never really offered that information either.

“I have a little brother, Bohyuk. He’s two years younger than us. When he found out I was coming here he got really excited and made me promise to bring home tricks so he could watch them, even before I really believed this was real. In fifth grade I broke my arm trying to learn how to ride a skateboard because this really cool _hyung_ said that was his hobby.”

Wonwoo swears Jihoon hums, but it might just be the _gashin_.

“I’m an only child. I told my parents they were crazy for believing the scammer when they came to tell me that I had a spot at this school. In fifth grade I was…” Jihoon suddenly starts laughing, the sound becoming muffled when he shoves his pillow over his mouth to quiet the sound. “I think you could say I was popular?”

“No way,” Wonwoo says.

“Jerk. I had friends I knew from when we were toddlers. I was the keyboardist in a band. When I came here I didn’t know anyone and I’d forgotten how to make friends because I hadn’t had to do that in so long.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Yeah, you know what helps me sleep at night? My roommate not talking to himself at three in the morning. Now you know stuff about me. Let’s never do this again.”

“Whatever. Night, Lee Genius.”

The laughter that escapes Jihoon’s throat jolts a sleepy Wonwoo wide awake, and keep him that way for a while yet.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“The sun’s moved,” Wonwoo says, squinting. “Jihoonie, please shift over so you block out the sun again.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jihoon says. He moves over, but it just makes sun shine more in Wonwoo’s eyes and Wonwoo makes a loud whining noise.

“I can’t read like this,” he complains, putting his book down. “I’m being blinded—”

_Thwack!_

Wonwoo’s ears are still ringing from the ball to the face when a voice starts squeaking, “We’re so sorry, are you okay?”

Wonwoo groans, giving his head a shake and slowly blinking his eyes open. The sun’s being covered now, courtesy of a face looming over Wonwoo’s own with sharp pointy teeth. Wonwoo groans again, swatting at the face with one hand, and the face dodges. Instead of belonging to some monster like Wonwoo had expected, the face belongs to a person, an enormously tall person, but a person Wonwoo doesn’t recognize. It’s some huge first year who’s still yapping apologies, only now he’s joined by another stammering first year and a silent one who blinks at Wonwoo like he’s about to explode.

“Stop. Stop, stop talking. You’re all making my head hurt even more,” Wonwoo complains.

Jihoon manages to stop laughing for long enough to tell him, “Serves you right, Jeon. That’s what you get for giving me a headache all the time.”

You’re fine, the _gashin_ tell him.

Ever since second year started, it had become harder to distinguish which voices were the _gashin_ and which were just Wonwoo’s own thoughts. They blend together like he’s becoming one of them. See, even that, he’s not sure it’s his own thinking or just the _gashin_ planting weird ideas in his mind. It’s not mind control, they sulk.

Wonwoo moans again, determined to make the most of the situation. He wants pampering, people grovelling at his feet, someone to become his minion.

“Should we bring him to the infirmary?” Stammering Anxious Guy asks.

“Ch. Stop milking it,” Jihoon says, slapping Wonwoo’s abdomen with Wonwoo’s own book, terrifying the first years into jumping half a step backward. “We can just get something for the pain from Soonyoung and Junhui.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung and Junhui room together in the _Seongjong_ dorms, and even if you don’t know where they live, you do know where they live. It’s because of the calligraphy on their door, loudly declaring, ‘big dicks’.

No one knows how the sign was first posted to their door, but people had waited outside to see what the inhabitants of the room would do once they found out. Wen Junhui, their year, had reportedly paused, tilted his head, disappeared into their room and returned to rip off the sheet of paper in order to affix his own copy of the same words, this time in prettier writing. Teachers had tried to take it off after that, but the door and the paper spirits refused to separate, and so, they were the ‘big dick’ first years.

Rumor goes that it was a hazing ritual from one of the upper years, or that it was someone who was mad at one of them for being insensitive and loud, but Wonwoo privately suspected that it was Soonyoung himself who had made the door sign. Whether it was a prescriptive talisman or true after the fact…Wonwoo’s been in the showers with them and let’s just say, well, the sign wasn’t lying.

Anyway, the point isn’t really about dicks, big or otherwise.

The point is that Junhui is the calligraphy guy, and he’s the one you go to for talismans. Plus, Soonyoung is the herbs guy, and he’s the one you go for teas and plant-y stuff.

So Wonwoo sits while Junhui examines the mark on his forehead, Soonyoung guffaws loudly standing behind him, Jihoon continues reading his book on local horticulture while sitting on one of the blankets, and the three first years crowd outside the door.

“Hmm…” says Junhui seriously. “Well…”

“Can you fix me, doc?” Wonwoo deadpans.

Jihoon snorts, and then clears his throat as if trying to keep up the appearance that he doesn’t actually care what’s going on. His idea of a blank look, however, leaves his mouth in a neutral grimace and gives him a spiteful look that could cut through flesh as if his eyes shot out lasers. The first years creep back, hiding their bodies with the frame of the door and only poking their eyes and noses over the edge. Cowards, the lot of them. Jihoon hadn’t done any threatening yet, much less pulled out his usual ‘violence is the answer’.

Soonyoung interrupts with, “Before you do anything, Junnie, I just wanna know which one of you three was the one who kicked the ball.”

The sound of wind whistling from the front porch is all that can be heard. Then, Stammering Anxious Guy slowly raises his hand and (stammers), “M-me?”

“You, what’s your name? I’m keeping you.” Soonyoung reaches out to high five the raised hand.

“Soonyoung!” Wonwoo whines.

Junhui chastises Wonwoo to stay still, which Jihoon happily reinforced with a slap to his arm.

“What, do you want a high five too?” Soonyoung asks. Wonwoo doesn’t, but Soonyoung mashes their palms together anyway. “There, you get a high five. It was an accident, Wonwoo, don’t beat the kid up. He’s already terrified of you as it is.” He starts making baby noises, cooing and tickling under the kid’s chin. “The baby firstie didn’t know the ball would go so far, he didn’t know his own strength. Isn’t that right…?”

“Lee Seokmin!” Stammering Anxious Guy squeaks.

“Seokgu!” Soonyoung proclaims. “And what are your friends’ names?”

After Soonyoung dubs them Mingu and Haohao, Junhui finally slaps the finished talisman against Wonwoo’s forehead, the paper fluttering harmlessly against his skin.

“There you go.”

“What is it? Stop the swelling? Make the pain go away? Hide the bruise?” Wonwoo goes cross-eyed trying to read the backward _hanja_. “Am I going to have to walk around with this all day? Kind of makes it hard to see.”

Junhui crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. He gives Soonyoung a look before facing Wonwoo again. “No, if you start having night pains or something you can ask Soonyoung for another thing but…this just says ‘I’m very weak’.”

There’s a stunned moment of silence in the room before Jihoon loses it, falling out of his chair and dropping his book to outright laugh at Wonwoo, clutching his sides, head thrown back and eyes closed in mirth. The three first years back away from the doorway, traumatized by the force of the laughter. Soonyoung has the decency to try to hide his amusement, but two seconds later he’s tittering, all high-pitched and highly annoying, too.

“That thing on your forehead will barely even bruise! I can’t believe you want pain medication for that,” Junhui explains, affronted.

Wonwoo opens and closes his mouth twice and then widens his eyes. “But it hurts!”

“No it doesn’t!”

Wonwoo crinkles his forehead in frustration and finds, “Okay, fine, it doesn’t.”

That sets Jihoon and Soonyoung off on another round of laughter while the first years shuffle awkwardly, shifting their weight from foot to foot. “So, um, can we go now?” Mingyu asks, smiling nervously.

Junhui gives Soonyoung another look. “Well, since you’re already here, why don’t you guys test out some stuff for us? Soonyoung made this sleeping draught from the _yeongji_ mushrooms I brought back from China.”

“Don’t give the first years hallucinogenics, you two,” Jihoon admonishes, rolling his eyes.

“We’re not scamming them!” Soonyoung says hastily. “We just need to test the dosage. You guys can try some too.”

“No thanks,” says Jihoon. “ _Yah_ , Jeon, I don’t think you should take the talisman off yet, you have to let it work its full effects.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo takes one of the small round bottles of dark violet liquid even if Jihoon doesn’t, downing the thing despite its distinctly medicinal scent. He misses the entire next day of classes, knocked out for twenty-four hours on the stuff.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” He asks Jihoon, when he realizes it’s suddenly a Tuesday instead of a Monday.

“Couldn’t. Tried. Took notes for you.”

“Really?” Wonwoo brightens. “Thanks Lee Genius.”

“Ch,” Jihoon says, but he’s smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the second month of the year (by the lunar calendar, of course), Jeju celebrates the _yeongdeunggut_ , a ceremony to worship _yeongdeungsin_ , goddess of the sea.

The entire shrine transforms, bustling with activity and bursting with colors. The preparations fall onto the students at the school, who practice percussion rhythms and string up decorations while the elders perform the requisite purifications to cleanse the entire school, the buildings and the people.

Somewhere on the porch, Junhui’s laid out the dozens of scripts he has to copy out, some ways further down from there, Soonyoung’s practicing the ritual dancing. Jihoon and Wonwoo tie together ribbon banners, something that requires bucket loads of concentration and very fine finger work. It would be okay if it weren’t so _boring_ , and Wonwoo collapses, lying flat on his back from the tedium.

“What are you doing,” Jihoon demands.

“Taking a break,” Wonwoo whines.

“We don’t have time for a break. There’s dozens of these still to go and the ceremony is in two days.”

“The ceremony can miss one or two tapestries, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Don’t let _yeongdeungsin_ hear you say that, or she’ll ruin the fish harvest.”

Wonwoo turns his head so his cheek is pressed against the cool floor, unperturbed.

“Wait, you don’t like fish.”

Wonwoo neither confirms nor denies, but his cheeks lift and a soft smile settles on his lips, pushing his skin more firmly against the wooden slats. Less fish was always fine by him. He still hasn’t told Jihoon about the falling in the lake story, but it doesn’t really matter. They spend enough time together that Jihoon can figure these things out by observation, the same way Wonwoo’s figured out Jihoon can’t eat spicy food, so they trade, seafood for pepper sauce, when the need arises.

“So what, you’ll let an entire city lose out just because you have a grudge?”

“That’s mean. I just want to take a break. You should take a break too, Jihoonie.”

“Ugh.” He doesn’t recoil from the nickname but he does put down the purple satin between his fingertips and scoot backward so he can rest against the wall, his head clunking back against it. “I’m going near-sighted. Can’t even see the sky anymore.”

The sky is angry today. The clouds have rolled in dark and ubiquitous, leaving no room for variety in the deep violet color. There’s none of the softness of normal clouds, none of the swirls of white or cyan or lavender, and the sixth years had been recruited to participate in the rain dances, coaxing the storm spirits to unleash their rain before the day of the _yeondeunggut_. The _ganshin_ keep telling Wonwoo it’s futile, and Wonwoo keeps telling them to shut up.

“Imagine if you wore glasses,” Wonwoo says. He giggles. “You’d complete the nerd get up.”

Jihoon swats his head, twice, once with each side of his hand. His hand remains there, bouncing against the volume of Wonwoo’s hair, fluffing the back where it’s thickest. “You need a haircut.”

“I know,” Wonwoo says, “The back right? It grows too fast.”

“You can get Mingyu to do it. He cut Jeonghan- _hyung_ ’s.”

“The firstie? Do I trust him?” Wonwoo wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“I mean, it was Jeonghan. I’ll come with you if it’ll help, threaten to kill him if he turns your head turquoise or something.”

“That feels like you’re predicting that very thing will happen. I’m all for avant-garde but I’m not sure I’m ready for bleached hair.”

Things foretold are not always as they will be, the _gashin_ inform him helpfully.

Like the weather? He muses.

A pause.

Like the weather.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the day of the ceremony, there’s a slight drizzle which lets up just in time for the ceremony to be held with their robes dry, but the hems becoming crusted with wet mud drying a dark brown. It’s hard to tell if that means the spirits were right or wrong.

Afterward, when they’ve done all they can to ensure a good harvest, Wonwoo sits on a rickety stool in the Janggeum dorms boys’ bathroom, a garbage bag draped over his shoulders, and Mingyu snapping a pair of scissors open and closed dangerously near Wonwoo’s left ear.

“I don’t know if this is really the right way to go about this,” Mingyu says pensively, staring at  
the back of Wonwoo’s head like it’s a difficult mathematics problem.

Wonwoo hunches his shoulders, self-conscious now about the way his hair lifts up, round like an _ottugi_.

Then there’s the sound of buzzing, and it’s not the usual hum of magic from all the objects in the room. It’s electrical, the whirr of shaving shears after being plugged in and switched on, and brought right to the base of Wonwoo’s nape.

“Don’t make me bald!” He instructs, voice firm, and only getting high pitched at the end of the sentence. Probably not that noticeable (the _gashin_ say that’s untrue but whatever).

Mingyu makes an annoyed sound, pulling the shaving clippers back and pursing his lips. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Just let me do my thing.”

“Just trust him, _hyung_ ,” Seokmin says, leaning against a mirror.

Mingyu starts at the base of Wonwoo’s neck again, and as soon as Wonwoo feels the vibration against his hair, he twitches.

“ _Seolmundae_ help me, if you don’t stop moving, it’s not just your hair that’s all gonna go, but your ears too.”

“He’s scared,” Jihoon offers, grinning.

Wonwoo narrows his eyes. He is, but that’s not for the rest of them to know. On the inside he’s trembling while Mingyu slowly trims off an entire layer of hair, glaring at Jihoon the entire time. It gives Wonwoo something to focus on that’s not the sharp things right by his scalp, and helps him remain still on the outside until Mingyu’s done. He sags, although he feels lighter, really, shaking his head and feeling the air against his skin.

With a wave of his hand, Jihoon sends all the tiny hairs dusting after themselves into the trash bin. Then he prods at the back of Wonwoo’s head, where the undercut is, bouncing his fingers there once again before running them up and down. “You’d think it’d be prickly, but it’s actually kind of soft. Not bad, Jeon.”

Minghao unfolds his arms. “Don’t tell Mingyu it’s nice, all of the compliments are getting to his head.”

“But I think it’s another job well done though, don’t you, Wonwoo- _hyung_?” Seokmin asks.

“Of course you think it’s well done,” Minghao says, and then sighs.

“Okay, okay, everyone shut up and let the man himself speak,” Mingyu says, holding his arms out for silence.

His eyes meet Wonwoo’s in the mirror and he raises a single eyebrow.

Wonwoo shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s just a haircut. I look good regardless, don’t I?”

Jihoon’s hand stops stroking the back of Wonwoo’s head to smack him. “Narcissism is not a _Maechang_ trait, it’s a character flaw.”

Mingyu just looks up at the ceiling. “ _Seolmundae_ help me not become a murderer.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Wonwoo, are you…”

“Hm? Nah, not still using the _baksu_ textbook. I’ve decided if I need any potion making from now until I die, I’ll put my life in Joon and Soon’s hands.”

“No, stupid, you’re going to keep studying because you hate failure. But I mean are you still…” Jihoon trails off.

Wonwoo shivers and zips up the navy blue jacket he’s wearing, sleeves no longer able to cover his fingertips the way they used to, and padding a little thinner and less warm than when he’d first got it. It’s not the jacket that’s shrunk, it’s him that’s grown and Jihoon scowls at him every day for it.

“Hey, do you ever how people come up with something like a zipper?” Jihoon says, out of the blue. “We can just ask fabrics to hold together but someone had to invent a zipper…what’s the zipper spirit, did it come before the zipper or did it only exist after the zipper was invented?”

“After,” Wonwoo says, with the help of the _gashin_. He peers curiously at Jihoon.

“That’s cool,” Jihoon says, fidgeting with the zipper on his own jacket. Suddenly, he shoves his hands into his pockets and quickly mutters, “You’re still coming over this summer, right?”

The skin around Wonwoo’s nose creases and un-creases in his attempt to fight back a giggle. “This strange person…didn’t we already decide on that? Or did you give me a fake phone number because the first invitation was a lie?”

“Damn, that’s a good idea, I should have thought of that. Now you can contact me to pester me at will. Annoying.”

“Mean, Hoon-ah, mean.”

“If you expected any differently, you’re stupider than I thought.”

“I _am_ stupid, and that’s why I’m giving up on this _baksu_ exam. Who needs to know about plants? They’re just useless green things,” Wonwoo says, leaning back in his seat so the front legs lift up off the ground. He stares up at the ceiling with resignation, letting the spirits’ soft, airy voices mix with Jihoon’s firm, even tones, their lectures washing over him in a lullaby. All of the leaves in the textbook looked the same, but one fern could kill you while another could bring you back from the brink of death.

A knock to Wonwoo’s shoulder sends him teetering off balance and flailing in the air, feeling himself fall backward. The _gashin_ gently lower him upright without a word, but they don’t need to voice their condescension for it to be felt.

“You really gonna let Kwon Soonyoung beat you in a class because you didn’t bother memorizing the basics?” Jihoon asks.

Wonwoo looks over at the arched eyebrow and stern expression on Jihoon’s face and shakes his head. “I wanted to sleep.”

“You can sleep over the holidays.”

“Well you better not expect your bed to be free because I’m going to sleep for two months straight.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

The trip to Busan doesn’t happen, as was planned.

Nothing that summer before third year goes as planned.

First, the letter for Bohyuk that’s supposed to arrive from _Gwaneumsa_ never materializes.

Then, when Wonwoo writes to the school to ask about whether said letter got lost in the mail, he’s promptly informed that Bohyuk cannot be initiated as _kangshinmu_. Also, his mom forces him to see an optometrist and he’s forced into a pair of glasses. And to top it off, he gets his final grades back and he definitely did worse than Kwon Soonyoung on the stupid _baksu_ exam, and rather than being reprimanded by himself or the spirits or his parents or anyone else, all he can hear is Jihoon’s voice taunting him.

The summer fucking blows.

Throughout the entire first few weeks, the _gashin_ float restlessly around Wonwoo, surrounding him without telling him anything, but always following him, and he can feel the presence of the spirits hovering over his shoulder, peering above his head, collecting around his feet. Indoors, it’s stifling, even if he knows they’re trying to protect him or care for him or something absurdly sentimental like that. It’s better outside, where the bustle of cars and people and the noises of every day life in Changwon overwhelm the sense of being muzzled.

Contrary to Jihoon’s fears that he wouldn’t be left alone, Wonwoo only calls once to tell him that he won’t be able to spend extra time in Busan. The trip to the port city is replaced by trips to the local arcade, aquarium, art village, and so on and so forth, and when he and Bohyuk have exhausted every interesting place they can find in Changwon, they simply walk up and down the streets, or loiter in malls like proper teenagers, looking at everything but buying nothing.

They don’t talk about anything in particular. Wonwoo teases Bohyuk about a girl he seems to like, and they complain about mom making them do so many chores around the house, but it’s almost forced.

Wonwoo is fifteen and clinging to the parts of their brotherhood that don’t make Bohyuk feel coddled or rebuked by an older brother, doesn’t want to push their relationship toward vague resentment, which would be so _easy_. He sits across the table, three portions of grilled _bulgogi_ between the two of them, and lets Bohyuk say, “They must be staring at us because I’m so handsome,” without scoffing or asserting his own looks. This is his brother, after all.

This is his brother, so Wonwoo reaches over, ruffles his hair, and smiles. “ _Aigu_ , our little Bohyuk is going to grow up living off his handsome face.” And he’s warm, the _gashin_ tickle the delicate skin at the back of Wonwoo’s neck, and things don’t go as planned, but not everything goes as foretold and that’s okay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first major assignment the third years receive is a year-long research project on the history of Jeju- _do_.

“You may work in pairs, and present your findings in an essay, a presentation, a poster…however you see fit. The important thing is to choose individual elements and focus on the specifics of how the magic and culture developed together. I expect detailed work, not something put together the week before. That’s why you have the entire term,” explains Professor Song, passing out rubrics to each student with a wave of his hand, each paper landing on a desk after expertly maneuvering around chairs and students.

“Challenge accepted,” mutters Soonyoung, one row in front, earning a laugh and a high-five from Junhui, which in turn earns a quick rebuke from their professor.

Myungeun leans over Wonwoo’s desk to tap Jihoon on the shoulder. “We’re first and second in this class, wanna work together?”

Jihoon pulls away from the touch so strongly that his chair squeaks against the floor, and he averts his eyes from Myungeun, stammering out “Uh, I can’t.”

“Why not?” She asks, sitting back down with a small pout, her hands curled into tight fists in her lap where Jihoon can’t see. She’s shaking, a little, and Wonwoo’s unable to decide if he should feel bad for her or amused by Jihoon’s inability to interact with girls.

A blush spreads across Jihoon’s cheeks and he stares up into the top left corner of the blackboard. “Um, because Wonwoo and I are working together.”

“We are?” Wonwoo grins, enjoying the glare Jihoon sends his way as if it promises extra food at lunch time, rather than what are sure to be punches when the professor isn’t looking.

“Yeah, we are.”

“I didn’t know that.” He scratches idly at the back of his neck, watching Jihoon flounder.

“Don’t you remember,” Jihoon bites out, the grimace on his face comical.

“Do I~?” He doesn’t keep the teasing up any longer because partnering with Jihoon isn’t really unexpected, but it’s fun to laugh at him for being so terrified.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m sorry for stealing your project partner,” Wonwoo offers, after Jihoon’s dashed out of the classroom, leaving behind his coat in an effort to get away from Myungeun as quickly as possible.

Myungeun pulls out the elastic holding her hair out of her face and shakes her head. Whether it’s to indicate something in the negative or just to reorient her hair is unclear. “It’s fine, Hayoungie’s smart and I can talk to her without her acting like I’m a demon or something. Is he always like that?”

Wonwoo grins, looking into the empty doorway. The _gashin_ project an image of Jihoon to him, the sleeves of his sweater hanging over his fingers, with his back curled up to huddle against the wind on his trek toward the dining hall. Wonwoo folds the jacket over one arm. “Don’t think he interacts with girls much. I think he might be scared of them.”

“And you’re not?” She asks, hands on her own cheeks.

Wonwoo leans over, whispering close to her ear, “Aren’t more people scared of Jihoon? I live with him, so I’m not afraid of anything.” And then he runs after Jihoon with his jacket, because that one’s not the type to admit he’s cold to anyone, and if he gets sick it’ll be Wonwoo who gets infected next.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On one of the coldest days in winter, Wonwoo comes out of the shower building, skin pink at his nape from the hot water, and returns to the dorm to find Junhui sprawled on the floor among huge watercolors of regional plants (all resting for the winter).

“Did I take a wrong turn?” Wonwoo blinks.

“Dumbass,” comes Jihoon’s voice from his bed. Wonwoo hadn’t realized that the lump of blankets was a person. Swathed as he is, Jihoon looks like an egg with his whole body cocooned in the duvet and only his face exposed.

“Not everyone can be like you, Lee Genius,” Wonwoo says, rolling his eyes at Jihoon’s smirk. He closes the door behind him and shuffles in, hovering between the two sets of bedding.

“I’m not allowed back in the room,” Junhui explains lightly, before returning to his work, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

“Isn’t this your final project for magical theory?” Wonwoo wonders aloud, faintly surprised that there was so much done so far before the deadline. That wasn’t Joon and Soon’s style, not when they could put things off for more fun adventures. “Did you make Soonyoung angry or something?”

“What makes you think Junhui was the one in the wrong and not Soonyoung?”

Wonwoo scratches at his neck. “Isn’t that…kind of Junhui’s style?”

“Stop doing that,” Jihoon admonishes, reaching a hand out to smack Wonwoo’s back.

Wonwoo points to himself. “Me? Doing what?”

“Scratching your neck. You’ve been doing it for weeks and look, your skin’s all peeling. Come here, I made Junhui bring lotion.”

Jihoon withdraws his other hand from his nest of blankets as well and forces Wonwoo to sit down in front of him, slathering cool cream over the irritated skin, which has, in fact, begun peeling. Wonwoo doesn’t know how to explain that the action just makes him feel _more_ itchy so he tries to make a joke. “Did you steal the last of Soonyoung’s lotion and he get mad at you, then?”

“For _Seolmundae_ ’s sake, Wonwoo, Kwon Soonyoung can be a brat and—”

“No, he has a point.” Junhui sits up, brushing off dirt from his sweater, but smearing ink all over the front in the process. “This is our project, but Soonyoung stopped caring about a week in and told me to do whatever. He’s since spent most of his time holed up in our dorm, and if he falls asleep with the door locked, I can’t get in. I asked him if something was wrong yesterday but he ignored me and laughed harder at one of Seokmin’s jokes and now I can’t get into our room at all. So I think Wonwoo’s right. I must have made him angry, or something.”

Wonwoo tries to apologize but Junhui brushes it off like it’s nothing, falling asleep shortly after and producing soft snores into the floor.

“We should probably move him to your bed,” Jihoon says, nonchalant.

“ _My_ bed?” Wonwoo flares his nostrils and widens his eyes.

“Well he isn’t touching mine in those muddy clothes.”

“Then where am I going to sleep?”

Jihoon averts his eyes, casting his gaze toward the ground, mouth slightly downturned. “You weren’t so concerned about sharing a bed in Busan before the summer,” he says.

So, Junhui gets lifted into Wonwoo’s bed, while Wonwoo and Jihoon sleep in Jihoon’s bed, and Wonwoo continues to scratch at the back of his neck, the anti-itch cream doing nothing.

“I told you to stop that, you’re breaking the skin,” Jihoon says, annoyed, eyes closed, voice slightly muffled by the pillow.

“The lotion doesn’t help.”

There’s a rustle and then the heel of a palm pressed into his nape, thin fingers threading through Wonwoo’s hair. It feels cool there, even though the press of skin to skin should be warm. The spirits, too, which have been hovering around Wonwoo ever since the summer, seem to simmer down and stop moving, like he’s being anchored. He feels more human, which is weird because he _is_ human.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s just, in first year I never would have predicted Junhui and Soonyoung in separate rooms, you know? They were, like,” Wonwoo searches for a word.

“A pair. One always with the other,” Myungeun confirms. They’re sitting in music class, surrounded by chanting and humming. Wonwoo likes it, the way the instrumentals resonate, and the voices seem to make the small room into a larger chamber. Like magic, which it is, of course.

“Right. But now not only are they not together, it’s like Junhui is Jihoon’s friend? Jihoon has a friend? Who isn’t me?”

Myungeun hums a little. “It sounds to me like…”

“Like what?” Wonwoo asks.

“I forget where I was going with that,” Myungeun admits. “Anyway, people change. Life doesn’t go as predicted. Isn’t that why you read the books you do? Because they have twists you don’t expect, and that keeps things interesting.”

That was true. Wonwoo likes the unpredictable, likes deviating from expectation. Feels vindicated when the _gashin_ suggest one thing, but things turn out in a completely different way. “But they don’t usually change that fast, do they? Something must have happened.”

“Instead of speculating, can’t you just ask Soonyoung?”

Wonwoo reaches up to scratch at his neck but stops himself and shrugs his shoulders to distract himself from the feeling of something crawling under his skin. He lowers his arm. “Would Soonyoung say? I mean, Junhui lives in our room now, I haven’t slept on my own bed in weeks.”

“Oh!” Myungeun exclaims, like a lightbulb has gone off above her head. Wonwoo had never understood that expression before, but her entire face just _brightens_ and it suddenly makes sense, the way a landscape is dark before the first rays of sunrise paints the world alive. “I remember now,” she says.

“Remember what?”

“It sounded to me like you were jealous.”

“Jealous? Jealous of what?”

But she's turned around already, and Wonwoo has only himself to ask.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On a foggy spring day, Jihoon and Wonwoo sit in the library, doing research for their project about the goddess of the sea, _Yeongdeungsin_ , which reveals a detailed folklore about the water of life. They work wordlessly across from each other surrounded by the smell of parchment, jotting lengthy notes, copying down information from magical and mundane stories from dusty history books and modern ritual papers. Incense, which fills many of the shrine’s halls, is absent here, where so much knowledge remains stored on flammable material.

Wonwoo doesn’t notice how late it’s gotten until he has to stand to properly scratch at the itch spread over the back of his neck all the way down to between his shoulder blades. When he looks out, it’s to see nothing but black through the window panes, and to realize they’d missed both dinner and sunset. Even now the format of their project remains elusive, and electing to conduct their research to get a broader picture before assembling the pieces was meant to help them keep their options open. But the more they dig, the more they find, and Wonwoo grows weary that they’ll have to come up with a plan sooner than later.

He’s about to sit back down with a sigh when a tap at his ankle catches him off guard.

“You’re tired,” Jihoon whispers. “Let’s get going.”

“What?” Wonwoo shakes his head, first to dispel (or de-spell, depending on how you see it) the sleepy _gashin_ holding his brain hostage, then to indicate in the negative. “I’m not!” he protests. His voice carries in the quiet hall and the volume earns him shushing from the other students.

“You’re getting restless, which is always a sign that you’re trying hard to keep yourself awake. Besides, the library closes soon.”

“But I wanna finish up with this book, I’m almost done,” Wonwoo says.

Jihoon shakes his head. “Ch. Pack it up, Jeon.”

“But Jihoonie…”

Jihoon gives him a look, but it’s just a look, kind of flat and unamused, eyes as dead as the fish at dinner. It’s not a glare, which emboldens Wonwoo.

“Just a liiiiittle longer, Hoon-ah?”

The book in front of Wonwoo slams shut, courtesy of Jihoon’s magic, the movement of air rippling over Wonwoo’s skin and tickling his forehead where his hair flutters. _Seolmundae_ he’s itchy.

Wonwoo emits a high-pitched whine but Jihoon simply rolls his eyes and stacks their materials together to sign out for reading at the dorms with his magic, the books hovering in a neat pile when Jihoon stands and trailing after him obediently. It’s such a little thing, levitation isn’t advanced magic after all, but with Jihoon paying the books no mind when he opens doors without so much as an incantation, casting warming charms on both himself and Wonwoo when they leave through the low gateway of the main building and take the steps down to the courtyard (it’s spring, and it’s Jeju, but it’s still a bit brisk for their thin robes), it’s grander than a levitation charm. The ease with which Jihoon goes about employing his magic to make his life easier radiates quiet power, a natural oneness with the otherworldly forces that still reminds Wonwoo of that conversation back in first year, _sessumu_ and _kangshinmu_ words rendered meaningless when a shaman of Lee Jihoon’s calibre wields magic.

“You’re still scratching? Primrose oil is supposed to be an anti-irritant,” Jihoon mutters, staring at Wonwoo with a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“Huh?” Wonwoo hadn’t noticed that he’d been scratching again.

“What’s the point of all of Junhui’s creams if they don’t work? We should really ask Soonyoung, he’s the actual plants person,” Jihoon says. “Actually, I’m kicking Junhui out so he can do actual work.”

“I’ll live,” Wonwoo says, patting at his neck and trying to ignore the itch. “Even if you kick him out, he’s not going to go back to his dorm, he’s just going to try to find someone else to bother and you know we’re his only friends.”

“I know, so I’m kicking him out so he has to go back to confront Soonyoung, because it’s gone on long enough. More importantly, he _snores_.”

Wonwoo laughs. He’s never noticed any snoring, and he can’t tell if Jihoon’s making it up or not. For the past weeks, Wonwoo’s sleep has been deep and dreamless, leaving him well-rested and refreshed in the mornings, never waking up or tossing and turning with insomnia.

Quieter, Jihoon continues, “You should still have one of the school healers look at it, even if there’s no rash.”

Wonwoo doesn’t respond but Jihoon doesn’t press either, not the type to say something twice.

It’s different from being hit in the head with a ball because that’s something you know you’ll survive. Whatever this is, and for all Wonwoo says he’s not scared of anything, he’s actually terrified the healers will reveal that his is a rare incurable condition which rapidly progresses to death. There aren’t any diseases like Wonwoo’s described in the medical books he’s borrowed, only itches brought on by ugly boils or other skin growths, while Wonwoo’s skin remains healthy and pale as long as he’s not rubbing it red.

“Jihoon, Wonwoo,” Junhui calls from their doorway when they round the corner.

Jihoon acknowledges him with a flapping of the sleeve of his robe, the fabric extended way past his fingertips. “ _Yah_ , Wen Junhui, I’m kicking you out.”

“You can’t kick me out!” Junhui’s face takes on an aghast expression, unbefitting of his usually sharp features. “You can’t kick me out if I leave first!”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Where to, exactly? Don’t be so dramatic, Hoon-ah’s just joking.”

“I have a dorm, you know.” Junhui sniffs, crossing his arms.

“Well, that’s news to me considering you’ve been muttering my bed for weeks,” Wonwoo mutters darkly.

“How are you going to get in?” Jihoon asks, shifting his weight over one foot so that his arm hovers close to Wonwoo, not quite touching. “Even if you go back, if Soonyoung keeps the door locked, what are you going to do, sit outside until he opens it?”

“You’re the one who just said you were kicking me out! I’ll just sit outside until he lets me in, you’ll see.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Junhui, you know Jihoon was just joking. Besides, he’ll just get worried you’re freezing your ass off.”

“Shut up, Wonwoo, I’m not going to be worried,” Jihoon says, arms crossed.

“Aw, our Lee Genius,” Junhui crows, prying Jihoon’s arms apart to pull him into a hug where Junhui looks like his body is swallowing Jihoon’s from the difference in size. “Thank you for caring, I really appreciate having such nice hosts all these weeks.” He thankfully doesn’t make to hug Wonwoo, as Wonwoo has no idea where to put his hands. Nor did Jihoon, really, whose arms stuck out with surprise, not really responding to Junhui’s embrace at all.

In fact, Jihoon’s eyes are wide and his limbs frozen in the same position when Junhui releases him and waves, disappearing in the direction of _Seongjong_.

“That’s my joke,” Wonwoo whines, once both of them are mobile again.

“Did he just hug me?” Jihoon asks. His body has recovered but his mind is still a little bit _affected_.

“Yes he did. And you might have said you weren’t going to get worried but you totally worry, he’s completely onto you.” Wonwoo grins, pushing the door open with his shoulder, and taking a running dive into his blankets.

From the doorway, Jihoon frowns. “I worry because he has to deal with Kwon Soonyoung all the time, that’s not a fate I’d wish on my worst enemy. Not even Kwon Soonyoung deserves to have to be Kwon Soonyoung all the time.” This is a drastic overstatement. Jihoon doesn’t think of Soonyoung as an enemy. Jihoon’s probably fond of Soonyoung, in an exasperated sort of way. He’d tried to mediate something between Junhui and Soonyoung back when Junhui first moved in, although gave up quickly when he was met with walls, for as much as Jihoon only pretends to be stoic, he genuinely is a bit allergic to feelings.

“Whatever you tell yourself to sleep better at night, Lee Genius,” Wonwoo says. “I know I’m going to be sleeping well because I’m finally back in his own bed.”

Jihoon cracks a smile at the nickname this time, yanking Wonwoo to his feet and grabbing both their toiletries to force Wonwoo to wash up before sleeping.

But that night Wonwoo, contrary to his expectations, doesn’t have a good sleep at all. He lies in a bed that’s too cold, too empty, too large, and where no fingers comb through his hair or form circles on the skin at his nape to soothe the discomfort. Through his eyelids passes a single beam of focused light from the lamp on Jihoon’s desk where he sits reading something or another, late into the night.

And Wonwoo, he tosses and turns, lying in what feels like a stranger’s body, a stranger’s bed, skin and sheets ill-fitted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why’s your ship so dark?”

Wonwoo looks down at the celebration vessel he’s putting together, all navy blues and deep olive greens where the others have imbued theirs with energetic reds and bright yellows.

It's the first time the third years are experiencing the _gangsa-ri beom-gut_ , a ritual held (unsurprisingly) as another chance to pray for high fish yield, among other blessings. The celebration ships have dragon head ornaments attached to the bow, and the second years fold enchanted flower after enchanted flower to decorate the port and starboard sides.

“I’ll make you some pink ones,” Mingyu offers. He folds them the fastest, quick with his hands and good with all kinds of tactile magic.

“Get Seokmin to do them, his are prettier,” Minghao says, nudging Seokmin’s shoulder.  
Seokmin’s are the neatest, his folds firm and precise, thin fingers creasing clean lines where Mingyu’s can sometimes be uneven.

But Seokmin shakes his head, saying quickly, “Mingyu’s are nice too though?”

Minghao rolls his eyes and flicks Seokmin in the forehead with a finger before turning back to his own work.

“No thank you,” Wonwoo says lightly. He’s not picky about how well they’re folded, but Wonwoo thinks his boat looks elegant. In comparison to the others’ boats of exuberance, Wonwoo’s stands tall like a warship.

“Go on,” says Myungeun, “not even a white one? Everyone’s got a white one.”

Wonwoo shrugs at Myungeun, thinking it’s not too terrible to be different and turns to see what Jihoon’s celebration ship looks like only to find Jihoon nodding off, his grip relaxing around a spool of fabric that falls to the ground with a clatter, waking him up.

“Good morning,” Wonwoo says, eyes looking up into the mid-afternoon sun, rays searing pinpricks in his vision.

“Shut up,” Jihoon says, blinking bloodshot eyes and rubbing at his face with both his hands. “Glass houses, you should see your eyebags.”

“Did you get _any_ sleep last night?” Wonwoo asks, dabbing at the skin under his eyes daintily. Were his eyebags really that bad? The _gashin_ reply in the affirmative, loud and fast.

“No,” Jihoon says, but doesn’t offer any sort of explanation as to why.

“We still have a lot to do and you look like you’re going to fall over at any second. I’ll go see if Junhui or Soonyoung have a herbal tea or something.”

Jihoon’s eyelids flutter, his eyes opening fully for the first time in the whole conversation. “Do you think they made up yet?” Jihoon whispers.

“I guess I’ll find out,” Wonwoo says, grinning and miming zipping his lips when the second years look at him with raised eyebrows.

Wonwoo searches through the courtyards for either of Soonyoung or Junhui, but doesn’t spot them together or alone, even after a second look. A trip down to the _Seongjong_ common room turns up similarly fruitless – the couches are deserted and no one answers the door when Wonwoo knocks at their room, still snorting to himself about the ‘big dicks’ sign. Well, if Soonyoung and Junhui don’t want to be found, they can make themselves scarce easily. But Jihoon’s still sitting outside after an all-nighter, so Wonwoo heads toward the kitchens hoping they’ll have any kind of tea.

“—look for us!” It’s Soonyoung’s voice that greets Wonwoo’s ears near the end of the _daechong_ , in the arm of the building furthest back. His voice is high and shrill, but also soft and lifeless, completely unlike him.

“No one will notice,” is the reply, in Junhui’s voice, the deep mellow one he normally keeps hidden in favor of childish joking tones. “We’re only two people and they’ll all be busy preparing for the _gut_ , which is perfect timing for us to talk, don’t you think?

Wonwoo presses his back to the wall, flat like a _kimchi buchimgae_ , keeping himself out of sight. They hadn’t noticed his footsteps when he was approaching so he could probably get away without too much trouble, but the allure of the conversation roots him in place, unmoving.

“You don’t feel bad about not helping?”

Junhui makes a noise that sounds an inexact mimic of Jihoon’s ‘Ch’. “We set up for a _gut_ once every other week.”

“Yeah, but this is the _gangsa-ri beom-gut_ , it’s once every three years,” says Soonyoung, and Wonwoo can’t tell if he’s petulant or desperate.

“Then we’ll help in sixth year.” Junhui says. And then, voice lower, “Stop trying to avoid me, Kwon Soonyoung, like you’ve done for the past month.”

“Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know that your response to me throwing a tantrum would be not coming home for weeks!”

“What? _What_? You’re getting mad at _me_?” Junhui says. “You call it ‘our home’ but you locked me out, so I didn’t really have ‘home’ for a while, did I?” It’s so _calculated_ , and Soonyoung’s actions strangely _mis_ calculated, like they’d rubbed off on each other so much they’d swapped behaviors entirely.

“You were supposed to, I don’t know, break the doors down or something!” Soonyoung wails, getting frantic. “Aren’t you always talking about how you’re strong and awesome or whatever? You couldn’t have _tried_? You just left me, Junnie!”

All of a sudden, his choked up bellows die down, and Wonwoo thinks they’ve stopped talking for a moment until he hears the first sniffle.

Soonyoung’s crying. His voice is barely audible when he asks, “Why’d you leave me?”

“ _Wo de laotianye_ ,” Junhui murmurs. It’s followed by more incomprehensible Chinese, which Wonwoo doesn’t understand. What he does understand, or at least he thinks he understands anyway, is the gentleness in Junhui’s voice when he says Soonyoung’s name.

There’s a shuffling sound, and then Junhui says Soonyoung’s name again, once in full, before a hodgepodge of nicknames, repeated soothingly until Soonyoung’s sobs die down.

“I can’t believe your way of asking someone in is to shut them out,” Junhui mutters into the silence.

Wonwoo hears a thump.

“Ow! That hurt,” Junhui whines. He makes a noise with his tongue. “Probably deserved it.”

“My mom,” Soonyoung starts, “she—”

The sniffling starts back up, something small and quiet, but deafening in the silence, with none of the usual rowdiness. He’s careful not to breathe too loudly, that’s how silent it is. Well, except for Soonyoung crying into Junhui’s arms.

“There wasn’t anything for anyone to do, she was getting treated in the hospital, and I felt like if I said it, I don’t know…I didn’t want…It just didn’t seem like talking about it would help.” Soonyoung breathes out deeply. “You’re bad at talking about things anyway,” he finishes, words coming out all in a rush.

Junhui doesn’t take issue with that claim, although he does dispute the other bit. “Doesn’t it help to share the burden?”

“That’s just it, what’s the point of doing that? Making two people miserable instead of just one, I thought that was dumb. I wanted you to be happy, but I wasn’t very happy so seeing you happy while I wasn’t was weird. And it wasn’t like I wished you’d be less happy but…It was confusing. I was confused.”

“You underestimated just how strong and awesome my shoulders are,” Junhui says. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry that I didn’t know, and that I didn’t, well, I shouldn’t have let you push me away.”

Soonyoung’s sniffs turn into a light giggle. “Your shoulders are very strong and awesome and broad and handsome,” he says solemnly. “And I’m sorry I locked you out of our rooms.”

“Can we go back now? I missed you. And my bed. And you. Mostly my bed—ow! Fine, okay, I missed you a lot Soonyoungie, stop hitting me!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I did see Soonyoung and Junhui actually,” Wonwoo informs Jihoon after the latter returns from the showers. Wonwoo’s sitting on Jihoon’s bed with his glasses on, a book in his lap, covers tucked around thin shoulders.

Jihoon looks at him mildly, still towel drying his hair. “And yet all you brought back was shitty caf leaf water.” He doesn’t say anything about Wonwoo being in his bed.

Wonwoo shrugs. “And then I covered for you so you could sleep.”

“So are they back together now?” Jihoon asks. He picks up a book of his own and slides against the wall, crawling over the _yo_ laid out on the ground until he reaches the pillow, which he plops over. The book settles ahead of him, so he can read it on his stomach.

“They’re really bad at communicating. If they just told each other stuff, that entire last month wouldn’t have had to happen.” A crinkle forms between Wonwoo’s eyebrows. “Wait, _are_ they together?” he asks.

“Are they?” Jihoon asks. “I only meant, are they good, you know, no longer fighting and stuff. Because it’ll be less annoying that way, obviously.”

“I think they’ll be okay.”

Junhui and Soonyoung are playful souls, friendly, likeable. It’s not just the people around them who enjoy their presence though, because there’s always _gashin_ swirling happily around their ankles, like little children. That might change as they grow up but Wonwoo wouldn’t bet on it. It’s just the way they are, the way Jihoon is an old soul, with a few tired spirits hovering over his shoulder, calm and still, when they’re indoors. Outside, the _gashin_ don’t tend to roam near him, although Wonwoo’s always figured that’s just because the spirits are too busy pestering _him_.

You mean Chatting with.

No, I mean _Pestering_.

The _gashin_ act up, feigning hurt, and Wonwoo rolls his eyes.

“Did I say something?” Jihoon asks suspiciously.

“Hm?”

“You were rolling your eyes at yourself just now, it was kind of weird.”

“What?” Wonwoo scratches at the back of his neck.

“Actually, come to think of it, it’s not the first time you’ve gotten a really sudden weird expression on your face. Do you talk to yourself?” Jihoon asks curiously.

“Um,” Wonwoo says.

Yes, no, yes, no, there’s some kind of silent argument between two sides of himself, or him and the _gashin_ , or maybe between the spirits themselves, it’s hard to tell when it’s all happening inside his head. Wonwoo shakes himself out of the furor, closes his novel over a bookmark and sets it aside. He can see Jihoon staring at him peripherally, watching him slowly lift his glasses off his noses, away from his ears, watching him fold the arms and putting them out of reach. The fidgeting with stuff is a time-buying tactic but Wonwoo’s too busy thinking about Jihoon staring at him to think about what to say. “Remember, uh, in first year,” Wonwoo starts, “when you joked that I was like the _gashin_ whisperer or something?”

Jihoon’s head tilts, his eyes still fixed on Wonwoo. It’s unsettling when they’re this close – they’re lying on the same bed after all. “Maybe vaguely? Why?”

“Well…”

“You’re not going to tell me you _are_ the gashin whisperer and have conversations with housespirits regularly, are you?” Jihoon snorts and adjusts his position so that he’s lying sideways, one arm under his head for support. “‘Hey pillow, how are you today, yes dinner was great and I’m really looking forward to bed,’ or something?”

“Err. Yes?” Wonwoo doesn’t expound on the lovely conversation he’d had with the pillow spirits about the improved quality of his dreams in recent weeks. Instead, he slides down until he’s tucked under the covers.

“You’re joking.”

Wonwoo shakes his head in the negative, hair scratching against the fabric of the pillow.

“Is that, uh, normal?” Jihoon wrinkles his nose. “I mean, you’ve survived for three years but that seems kind of creepy.”

“I thought it was how everyone did magic for a while, actually,” Wonwoo says with a shrug. “But they’re kind of nice to have around, you know, especially when I’m bored in class or something.”

“So you actually talk to them? Like, through your thoughts? Does that mean they’re always with you?”

“Nah, they’ll let me shower in peace, if I ask nicely.”

Jihoon flips over again, this time onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t sound normal to me. You hear voices and have some itch that won’t go away on your neck. What if your abnormalness is contagious?”

“Don’t you think you’d have contracted it by now, considering how often we share a bed?” Wonwoo murmurs, eyes fluttering closed before opening again. He rolls over, burrowed snugly between the sheets, warm and sleepy.

“ _Yah_ , if you say it like that it sounds strange,” Jihoon says. He’s staring at Wonwoo again, or maybe himself, transfixed by the movement of his own hand at the back of Wonwoo’s head, slipping down the short hairs to rest at Wonwoo’s neck. It’s both warm and cool, perhaps exactly what the skin there needs, and he coaxes the itch out with the firm movements of his thumb.

Wonwoo squints out at him before closing his eyes again. Jihoon’s got a bit of a bewildered look on his face, like he can’t understand what’s possessed him to start petting Wonwoo as if he’s a cat.

Wonwoo curls up, hunching his shoulders, and then stretches out again. The last thing he remembers before falling asleep is the sensation of Jihoon’s fingers pressing down and feeling a shiver running down the entire length of his spine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the morning, Wonwoo wakes up late, the sun already up and searing hot on his skin. He opens his eyes to an already dressed Jihoon, shirt sleeve-covered hand pressed against his neck. Wonwoo’s brain is trying to escape his skull, he can feel it throbbing even if there aren’t supposed to be nerve cells there and when Jihoon asks if he’s planning on getting up soon, in his quiet Jihoon-y voice, it’s like ten thousand speakers of sound directed straight at him.

Wonwoo grimaces, pulls himself into a sitting position, and rubs at his eyes. His nose isn’t congested, nor is his throat thick, much less sore. He doesn’t _feel_ sick but the massive headache in his head certainly doesn’t make him feel well either.

At any rate, all the healers are in today’s ceremony anyway, so there’s no help going to the infirmary. He clings to Jihoon’s arm, holding them back so that they can find a spot on the porch instead of the ground, furthest away from the ritual’s proceedings. There’s music, of course there’s music, and it’s loud and flashy, like the ceremonial ships someone will have to carry down to the water, and the decorations hanging from ropes strung up all around the shrine. Everything just has to be vivid and pain-inducing.

“Is Wonwoo- _hyung_ okay?” someone asks Jihoon, and it’s an earsplitting kind of not-a-whisper so Wonwoo assumes it’s Mingyu, but then figures it could be any of the youngers considering everyone just sounds that loud to him today.

“Is any of mankind okay?” Jihoon bites back, shooing whoever it is away. But he also gives Wonwoo a look, one that can only be described as vague concern, which, coming from Jihoon in the midst of all these people and noises, is probably the equivalent of calling for an ambulance.

Wonwoo leans back against the wooden pillar behind him and doesn’t say anything.

The _gangsa-ri beom-gut_ is not so unlike the others, even if it does only happen once every three years. All the shaman outfits are out, and there’s a quiet hum of energy just from so much magical presence being in such close proximity with each other. Wonwoo likes the rituals. They rebalance his spirit, his own spirit, as opposed to the housespirits that accompany him. The rituals make things quieter for a moment, as the rest of the senses are sharpened, the ritual magic soothing and calming. He always feels refreshed after one, like they haven’t lent their energy to the gods, but to each other.

The _gashin_ like the rituals too, and it quietens them in a different way. They become light and sombre, and less like they have all the answers. Wonwoo likes that too.

Praying for communal peace comes to a finish, and it’s time to pursue an abundant catch at sea, for what must be the third time this term. Wonwoo hates fish, hates praying for fish, and zones out. One less prayer among the hundreds of voices surely changes nothing, although, now that he thinks about it some more, there’s another element to this particular ritual.

It has to do with protection from tigers, or something, and the _gashin_ are in a strange tizzy about this particular fact. But they’re not making any sense, not speaking real words. It’s just a buzz that steadily increases in volume until he snaps his eyes open in annoyance, ready to tell them off. As soon as he opens his eyes, however, the spirits go silent.

When Wonwoo refocuses his gaze, there’s a giant big cat face before his eyes, with orange and white and black lines circling its huge mouth. The vision-tiger opens its cavernous mouth, exposing massive spiky teeth and leans toward him. The world goes dark, and Wonwoo closes his eyes again, expecting pain when the tiger bites his head off but instead there’s a roar that sounds as if it’s coming from behind him and then no sensation at all.

This school did have a habit of subverting his expectations.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Honestly, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were a Shifter.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “So you’ve said, at least thirty times since we’ve got back.” He flips the page of his enormous book on spirit magic, the old dusty tome given to him by Headmaster Han, along with a list of books in the school library that he might find useful. They’ve set him on an extra course of weekend lessons, with a rotating schedule of professors with experience in Shifting pedagogy – which is only three of them – to help him with his newfound-ish powers.

“But don’t you think it’s something you should tell your— tell me? I live with you! You sleep in my bed,” Jihoon says.

“‘If you say it like that it sounds strange’,” Wonwoo mimics, raising his tone and making his voice nasally. “What was I supposed to tell you anyway? I didn’t even know myself.”

“Ch. You’d think for someone who reads as many books as you do, you’d do some research on yourself.”

“Look, I didn’t realize it was unusual, okay? We’ve had this discussion so many times already, can we just drop it?” Wonwoo huffs loudly, zipping up his empty suitcase and floating it to rest in the open space above his closet. “You saw my first Shift anyway, you know literally as much as I do. And I told you about the spirit stuff, so.”

Jihoon is not best pleased. He’s doing that thing where his entire face is stretched out, eyebrows up, eyes wide, corners of his lips stretched sideways, nostrils flared. That said more about his mood than a scowl, which was no different from his normal expression of disinterest. “Yeah, less than twenty four hours before it mattered. If you’d told me any later I’d be dragging your ass to the infirmary with no idea what to say at all.”

“I’m sure they’d have figured it out,” Wonwoo says, unruffled. He’d woken up exhausted and surrounded by professors of three different specialties after all. It had been a protractedly agonizing transformation.

According to Jihoon, the sole witness of the entire event, Wonwoo had slumped over and couldn’t be shaken awake. Luckily, they’d been at the back of the crowd and no one else had seemed to notice. Jihoon managed to get them both to the infirmary without catching anyone’s attention, mostly through the use of levitation and notice-me-not charms. And more fortuitously yet, there had been a nurse inside, collecting a forgotten herb of some sort, who ran for one of the other healers, once it became apparent Wonwoo was still breathing and with a pulse.

Wonwoo doesn’t remember the encounter at all, but he does remember lying in his own sweat, gritting his teeth, potentially tearing apart the skin on Jihoon’s hand from the pain – he definitely remembers Jihoon’s hand, but Jihoon had skipped past this bit in his retelling.

It was awful. Wonwoo genuinely would have rather died than gone through that pain, but no one was there to relieve him of his misery. It felt as if he was being ripped apart from inside, his entire body turning inside out, and he would have puked if his stomach hadn’t been entirely empty.

By the time more experienced staff were at his hospital bed, Wonwoo had already turned into a shorthaired cat, Bombay by his research, and finished having his identity crisis at developing paws, a tail, and a sleek black coat. He’d already moved onto self-grooming.

Disconcerting was a mild way of describing the ensuing discussion about him, conducted in full view, where he was able to understand the conversation but not actively provide any input with the exception of vague agreement or disagreement. He’d kept most of his thoughts in his cat form, but his senses were weird, too sharp, and it disoriented him. The dizziness wasn’t helped by the vertigo from being so small and so high up. After Jihoon explained what he knew about Wonwoo’s spirit whispering, and the itchiness under his skin all the time, the review team quickly concluded that Wonwoo had simply Shifted. ‘Simply’ in this case being used to mean he hadn’t been cursed by a spiteful goddess, or worse.

The trouble was that Wonwoo couldn’t Shift _back_. The transition into his cat form hadn’t been voluntary, and none of the instructions they lobbed at him made sense. He wasn’t itchy anymore, he had no idea where to consider the back of his head anymore (was it the top of him or… Quadrupeds didn’t work the way humans did.

At the end, he’d woken up in his normal body, incognizant of how he got that way. Hence the lessons. Headmaster Han said something about Wonwoo being the first Shifter at the school in decades, or at least the first to present as a Shifter while still studying. He was to undergo training so he could control his transformations, and also advanced classes to help him use his _gashin_ control at a higher level.

“Honestly, Wonwoo. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were a Shifter.”

Wonwoo swivels on his toes to level a glare at Jihoon. “You just said that.”

“I know, but I feel like I’m going to be saying this all the time until I get used to the fact that you can turn into a freaking _cat_. You can’t expect me to just accept that.”

“I have to just accept it,” Wonwoo says, huffy again. If the first transformation had hurt, at least it had been in a place where it wasn’t completely abnormal. The first time his mother had woken up to find him coughing up a furball on the kitchen tiles had involved a lot more screaming than he would have preferred. At least it hadn’t hurt after that, his bones getting used to the Shift the more he Shifted.

“Point,” Jihoon concedes.

Suddenly, Wonwoo feels like he’s in first year again, staring at the _yo_ laid out on the ground for the first time. He blinks stupidly, and it’s hard to believe they’re already half year through their time at _Gwaneumsa _. Seungcheol- _hyung___ keeps telling them to enjoy each year because the next year gets harder, and Wonwoo never appreciates the advice until they’re backing their bags to head back home and vowing to do better next time.

“Anyway, so,” Jihoon says, staring at the blankets.

Wonwoo’s hand instinctively goes to the back of his neck, even though he hasn’t felt itchy there since the first transformation. It was like his skin was trying to tell him that something wanted to get out, something not quite human, but once it managed to manifest, he no longer needed the warning. “It’s not a problem anymore,” Wonwoo says, being purposefully vague about what ‘it’ is. He eyes his own bed warily. He’s made friends with all the spirits in this room long ago, it’s not going to bite him, but it looks cold, and he’s not sure it’s as nice as Jihoon’s side. “But…”

Jihoon says, “Ch,” and it comes out in a really comforting manner. He takes a deep breath before bending down and dragging his blankets toward the centre of the room. Honestly, he should sound and look annoyed. Well, he does sound and look annoyed to an outsider, Wonwoo thinks. Mumbling something before his mouth tightens, and then stomping through the motions of pushing their bedding together. In first year it would have seemed scary, or a hurdle to get past, but now Wonwoo can interpret Jihoon’s bluster better than anyone else can, probably.

“Well, are you going to help me, or just stand around like an idiot as per usual?”

“Lead the way, Lee Genius,” Wonwoo says, quick to catch Jihoon’s aborted smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is that a cat?” Soonyoung asks.

It’s a dumb question because in front of him is a cat, in all its black-furred glory. Actually, it’s Wonwoo, but for all intents and purposes, Soonyoung sees a cat and asks if it’s a cat, like some five-year-old.

Jihoon, smartly, does not answer the very dumb question.

He watches Junhui squat down with a wary eye, movements sharp and jagged instead of slow and lethargic.

“A familiar?” Junhui asks, brushing the cat’s head with the palm of his hand. Wonwoo butts his head into Junhui’s hand because it’s kind of nice, and it’s not like Junhui knows it’s him.

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. “Something like that,” he says evasively.

“Is that a cat?” Soonyoung asks again.

“It’s an adorable cat,” Junhui corrects. “Look at how shimmery this coat is, so healthy. And weirdly friendly too, not so nervous in front of strangers as you’d expect from a cat.”

Wonwoo stops purring immediately and opens his eyes so he can see exactly where to bat at Junhui with a sharp clawed paw.

“Ow. And smart too.”

“He’s alright,” Jihoon says with a shrug.

“Are you taking him with you to class?” Junhui asks, while Soonyoung continues to peer at Wonwoo like he’s chewed up his Hamtaro slippers or something.

They’re on their way to the dining hall for breakfast; Wonwoo had woken up in cat form, curled up against Jihoon’s side, and anxiously walked over Jihoon’s face to wake him up when he couldn’t turn human. Jihoon, however, had not been sympathetic to his plight. “I’m the one who has to take two copies of notes down since you no longer have fine control of your distal appendages,” Jihoon had said scathingly, because it was still very early, his eyes closed and hair shooting in every direction on his head.

“Is that a cat?” Soonyoung asks for the third time.

“Yes, it’s a fucking cat, I’m taking the cat with me to class, are you allergic to cats or something, Kwon Soonyoung, because if you don’t stop asking that I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.”

Wonwoo makes a weird hacking noise in his throat that comes out as a hiss in cat form. Junhui blinks, a little taken aback. Wonwoo hadn’t meant to sound pissed off. It was more a sound of amusement, because Jihoon would never go to the trouble of strangling someone when he could magic it. Plus, he wouldn’t strangle anyone anyway, because he had the approximate hardness of cat hair, frankly.

“It’s just very sentient. And it keeps staring. Aren’t cats supposed to be easily distracted or something?” Soonyoung says quietly. His voice doesn’t wobble but he does shuffle behind Junhui, using him as a shield.

“It’s not a regular cat, Soonyoung, it’s a familiar spirit. Of course it’s not going to behave like an animal in the wild,” Junhui says, pulling him around so they’re walking side-by-side instead of one-behind-the-other.

“If you say so,” Soonyoung says dubiously. “Does the cat have a name?”

“I just call him ‘cat’,” Jihoon says smoothly. Wonwoo wouldn’t have even been able to tell that it was made up on the spot if he weren’t in cat form, smelling the fear coming off Jihoon’s skin. And, well, the fact that he knows he’s himself.

“Don’t you think that’s a little mean?” Soonyoung asks.

“I think it’s cute?” Junhui says.

“You think everything’s cute,” Soonyoung says. And then, in an afterthought, “Especially me.”

“Gross,” Jihoon opines, at the same time Junhui says, “That’s true.”

“Cut it out, or Wonwoo’s going to puke.”

“Where is he, anyway?” Soonyoung asks.

Jihoon, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye in the cat’s direction. “Actually puking, probably. Woke up feeling sick, probably caught the opening week flu that always goes around, you know.” He’s a really good liar. A _really_ good liar.

“We’ll make him something and bring it over tonight then,” Soonyoung offers.

“You can just give it to me and I’ll do the delivery. Save you a trip,” Jihoon says quickly.

“That’s awfully nice and un-lazy of you,” Soonyoung says suspiciously.

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “I don’t want you dirtying up my room, and you’re bound to stick around if you visit.” Watching the exchange as an informed audience member, Wonwoo is alarmed and impressed by how smooth Jihoon is. _Too_ smooth.

“Bring the cat when you come round then,” Junhui says. “I wanna see if we can make up some cat treats too.”

Wonwoo happily lets Junhui give his back another rub before they separate to their respective _hanok_ tables.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’ve had one Shift since you’ve been back?” Professor Kang asks.

Wonwoo nods. “Both times I Shifted in my sleep so I’m still not sure how the process is occurring.”

“I suppose we just ought to be grateful that the Shifts haven’t lasted that long. Makes things less difficult to explain than, say, if you’d been a cat for a month, hm?”

Wonwoo nods again. The headmaster had thought it’d be a good idea to keep Wonwoo’s Shifting a secret, as long as he was still learning. Shiftlings were vulnerable, and there were some shamans who used Shifted spirits in their spells or potions, and scarier than that were those, though few, who believed in boiling live cats for _goyang soju_.

“Well, let’s see if we can find some common triggers. Have you been keeping the food diary?”

Wonwoo shows her his detailed notes about every second of his life, scratched out in a leather-bound notebook whenever he was in human form. He’d been keeping the log all summer, but sifting through the events for hours reveals nothing. There doesn’t seem to be a commonality to the Shifts at all. Not in what or when he eats, whom he sees, not even where he goes seems to help.

“If we can’t find anything in your wakefulness, Wonwoo- _goon_ , perhaps we should take a look at your dreams. You did say you’ve only Shifted in your sleep, did you not?”

“Except the first time.”

“We can make an exception for that, I think. You can discontinue the food log until further investigation, I’ll take a look at your journal and see if anything comes up mathematically. For now, why don’t you start a dream diary? You’ll have to be diligent, we forget our dreams very quickly.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Normally, the rituals and ceremonies in their weekly practice calm Wonwoo. They’re healing and quieting. But the _ssitgim-gut_ always makes things too quiet.

It’s something they hold twice a term, in a batch for everyone who newly rests in their cemetery, for lack of a kinder way to put it. A cleansing rite for deceased spirits so that the souls’ impurities may be washed clean that they can enter the world of the dead if they’re stuck in the world of the living.

As a Shifter, Wonwoo’s always been able to feel the lingering spirits on the periphery of his senses. They unnerve the household spirits that normally accompany him, and who stay within the comforts of their homes instead of following him on this particular journey. The absence of _gashin_ is one of the reasons this ritual always seems unsettlingly quiet, but the other absence is more keenly felt. It’s the lack of voices. No one whispers through the _ssitgim-gut_ , not even the firsties, because it’s too sombre.

Most of them are a little unruly when it’s the sea gods and goddesses they need to pray to so they can continue to eat unhealthy amounts of seafood, but when it comes to the dead, there’s only silent respect.

Wonwoo means no disrespect but it’s just, well, eerie.

‘ _It’s fear,_ ’ says one of the deceased’s spirits, looming by Wonwoo’s elbow. She belongs to a grandmother, who guides along the spirits too young to have died from old age. ‘ _We’re all scared of things we don’t know, and there’s nothing we know less about than the afterlife._ ’

‘ _I’m not afraid of dying,_ ’ Wonwoo thinks.

The old woman gives him a look. ‘ _That’s because no one you know has come close to dying yet._ ’

The muted mood clings to everyone long after the last red flag is lowered, long after the chief shaman has stopped waving her white paper chains, long after the last hit of the _janggu_ has finished ringing, drumbeat fading into absolute silence. It takes ages before anyone speaks, everyone shuffling back for the post-ritual meal looking at their companions and looking away.

People start talking around the table, mostly out of necessity, to pass the mackerel or the rice, or to ask for more kimchi.

He’s getting stiff in the neck from how rigid he’s sitting, mind going about 5000 _cheok_ a minute thinking about how quiet and doleful everyone is, and contemplating his own mortality. The spirits tickle at his feet and knees, crossed on the floor, and he hushes them with a sad smile inside his head. There’s life in this world, and there’s living, but there’s also death, he knows, kind of.

“ _Seolmundae_ ,” Jihoon mutters, once they’re back in their dorm. “You’re fucking tense.”

“It’s just the aura, you know, death rites always make me feel a little…”

“Existentialist?” Jihoon offers, with a wry smile.

“I’ll have you know I was never a Sartre fanatic,” Wonwoo protests, aiming a kick at Jihoon’s shin. He stares down at the dream diary in his hands, which he places beside his pillow for easy access in case he wakes up and needs to write down a dream. He frowns. “But you’ve thought it too, haven’t you? That this is all some kind of absurd out of body experience? I’ve never really gotten used to the magic, much less being able to shapeshift.”

“Come here,” Jihoon says.

Wonwoo lies down, kicking out at the covers until he’s beneath them, head resting not far from Jihoon’s on his own pillow.

“You’re so fucking maudlin today,” Jihoon grumbles, rolling over and flicking off the light in the room with a wave of his hand.

Wonwoo rolls over too so he’s facing Jihoon’s chest. He really hasn’t itched in months now, but Jihoon’s thin long fingers carding through his hair, from the base of his nape to where the undercut ends, and then back down against the smooth skin of his neck, it’s hard to explain, but he sleeps better, _dreamlessly_ , like that. He might even have purred, human shape and all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why on earth are you this heavy when you’re a cat?” Jihoon asks breathily, both hands clutching around Wonwoo’s sleek Bombay cat form underneath his two front paws. Stretched out, he’s probably as long as Jihoon’s torso, still tall in this distinctly non-human shape. He’d tell Jihoon to just let him run so they’d both be faster, but he can’t exactly talk right now, and Jihoon had scooped him up so quickly when he realized they were late for class that Wonwoo’s too disheveled to leap out of his arms anyway.

Swinging from someone’s arms is a horrible way to travel. He’s nauseous just from the height; swaying in the air with nothing he can grab at for purchase from his feet only amplifies his discomfort a hundred fold.

The worst part, Wonwoo thinks while holding in his cat puke, the worst part is that he doesn’t know why they missed their alarm in the first place. Jihoon’s a deep sleeper, that’s true, and hates getting up in the mornings, but they’ve also got contingency plans for that in place. Not just one or two alarms, but three, magical and analog in nature. Plus, one of them usually gets annoyed by the time the sun filters in, or the sound of banging doors from the other students will wake them if not one of the other students themselves. Somehow they’d both slept through all that noise today, and Wonwoo couldn’t remember having any dreams at all to report to Professor Kang regarding the Shift trigger.

“Late,” announces Professor Song, when Jihoon finally scuffles through the classroom door.

Wonwoo scrambles out of Jihoon’s arms to curl up under a chair as imperceptibly as possible.

“Sorry professor,” Jihoon says, still breathless from the run.

“It’s not like you, but you know the drill. Come see me after classes end for detention.” The professor tilts his head. “Bring your cat.”

The hair on Wonwoo’s back stands on end and he shift his weight onto his back haunches, tail sticking straight up. Professor Song knows he’s a Shifter, but he doesn’t like attention being drawn to him like that, and he’s not sure he should be held accountable to human standards when he’s in cat form. It’s not like he can function normally like this anyway, and he managed to make it to class despite everything, didn’t he?

It’s like Professor Song can sense his agitation, it’s visible enough, because he bends down and gives Wonwoo a scratch behind the ears. Wonwoo deflates, body no longer on high alert, and manages to survive the rest of the day without further adventure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Professor Song is waiting for them in his office when class lets out in the afternoon, but he doesn’t have the usual papers out for writing lines of homework that normal detentions consist of. It’s not like Wonwoo can write using his paws.

Jihoon’s learned, after much hissing and scratching, to let Wonwoo walk beside him without being held. He’d gotten some heavy pats on the head for that, warning shots maybe, but really, there’s no way for him to communicate his thoughts except for yes and no. They show up side-by side, and Professor Song’s gaze has to slide downward to see Wonwoo and give him a smile after peering over his glasses.

“Close the door behind you please,” he says, a bit late, and Jihoon doubles back to flip the lock.

“I’m afraid I’ll be directing most of my attention to you, Jihoon, as Wonwoo will not be able to reply, but I hope you know the offer extends to both of you.”

Wonwoo makes one sharp un-catlike nod.

“I remember you did extensive work regarding water on the island in my class last semester,” Professor Song says. “The water of life, the guardians of the ocean and so forth.”

Jihoon nods silently.

“A few of the older students have been working on water conservation this year, and it’s a bit esoteric, but I’ve managed to persuade the headmaster into allowing us a little excursion to _dongbaek dongsan_ next month. Not just for fun, of course, because the educational value of a field trip to the wetlands for students who are interested in how freshwater can be produced and consumed on an island is innumerable, but I think it will also be a relaxing trip. The camellia hill wetlands have a way of reinvigorating the most fatigued scholars. Considering your project, I thought you might be interested in joining us?”

Jihoon looks at the cat, who looks back at Jihoon. They both turn to look at Professor Song and nod in sync.

Professor Song claps his hands. “Excellent! Well, I shall arrange with your teachers an excused absence, and I’ve copied some materials in advance, thinking you’d agree, when it’s such a wonderful opportunity really…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo wishes he were in cat form for this.

The _Gotjawal_ forest is rocky by nature, situated on the rugged southwestern coast, but he hadn’t expected it’d be this difficult to navigate. Of course, it’s mostly untouched by human interference, the land not tillable for cultivation, and more recently protected by a series of magic and mundane agreements for conservation. Being bipedal, big, and unbalanced made stepping on the rocks treacherous. One slip and you could go sliding down the cliff, perhaps saved by buoyant magic if someone’s reactions were fast enough. They were harnessed by magic, of course, but that didn’t mean accidents couldn’t happen, nor that the protective spells could save you in any scenario.

No wonder it was meant to be a fifth year trip.

As a cat he could have sprung easily from rock face to rock face, balancing lightly on all four limbs, or using his tail if things got really dangerous. But, he supposes, no one else even has turning into a cat as an option, so he should suck it up and keep following Seungcheol- _hyung_ ’s retreating back.

Besides, it’s not like he’s mastered voluntary Shifting yet anyway. He’d Shifted back a day later again, in his sleep, this time dreamy about swirling stripes and bright colours, unattributable to any tangible thing.

“It’s not just you to think about, you know,” Professor Kang had said to him, “even if it requires a certain emotion and frame of mind from you. The patterns might be the spirits themselves, orchestrated together by the _goyangi gashin_.” Not that the advice had helped any.

“Careful,” Wonwoo says, reaching out an arm when Jihoon’s foot slips. He doesn’t lose his balance but Wonwoo grabs on to steady him all the same.

“Ch, don’t need your help,” Jihoon mutters. He springs up ahead of Wonwoo, catching up with Seungcheol and the others.

Watching from behind, Wonwoo can tell when they’ve reached their first destination. Everyone up ahead sort of stops, though the path keeps going and Professor Song continues up ahead. The students, however, stand and marvel at the sight before them, the impressive 20,000 _pyeong_ lake on the middle of a tiny island, its shores lined with green trees, the water reflecting the bright blue of the sunny skies.

Professor Song is standing on the bank, bent over and removing his shoes. “Come along now, this isn’t the only place we’re collecting samples today. If you want time for lunch, we’d best get a move on.”

The entirely still water surface is only slightly disturbed by the professor’s entry, light waves rippling out and dissipating before the perturbation gets very far. Even with the water falling briskly over a sharp ridge of rocks, the lake remains calm and quiet. Being out this far from developed land, there are almost no spirits here, save for the ones who occupy the birdhouses or those who accompanied Wonwoo on his way out. There are forest spirits, of course, but they mostly keep to themselves and the trees they’re meant to guard, hiding behind trunks or floating up high into the branches, never communicating more than a fearful glance.

Wonwoo picks up one of the recycled glass jars, washed of its previous contents, a sauce or vegetable presumably although the label has been ripped off with only small triangles of white plastic sticking to the original glue remaining. He toes off his shoes, and then his socks, and gingerly takes a first step into the lake.

The water is cool and almost not-there between his toes. It doesn’t lap against his skin the way normal lake water would, and the lack of movement makes it easy to feel like there’s nothing there at all.

It just is. He’s part of the lake now.

Wonwoo rolls up the bottom of his jeans and sets to work, scooping up an entire micro-ecosystem in the process, rocks, mud, and shrubs. Surprisingly, he can see straight through the water in his jar, clear as if it were empty, even though the sediment settles brown and murkier at the bottom. He looks down into the lake itself, and beckons Jihoon to his side.

“Look, it’s like a mirror,” he says, peering at his tessellated reflection. His skin looks smooth and clear, and the sunlight behind his head gives his hair a golden corona, a much more artful appearance than a photograph. Wonwoo gives his chin a thoughtful rub, admiring the line of his jaw and looks up to give Jihoon a cheeky grin.

“Ch, whatever,” Jihoon says. He bends down for a quick glimpse of himself, turning away almost as soon as his eyes hit the water, where their shadows block out the soil below, Wonwoo’s casting darkness almost a head longer than Jihoon’s.

After a few quiet moments, Jihoon flits a sidelong glance Wonwoo’s way. “Are you done admiring yourself yet? Can we go?”

Wonwoo looks up from staring at the reflection of Jihoon’s chin in the glassy lake, startled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hm. I suppose we’ll have to find another route.”

“It’ll be fine, professor,” Seungcheol says, quickly standing on the massive fallen tree which serves as a bridge from one side to the other. It sags under his weight, but otherwise remains sound.

Underneath, there had been a small stream once, which had evaporated from the heat of the _ʻAʻā_ lava tumbling over the _pahoehoe_ flows that created the island itself, which had bubbled just underneath the formed surface and boiled the tiny river away. The rest of the land had formed steeply around the water, leading to a cavernous pit, with mossy logs like this one serving as bridges in the forest untouched by man.

“Look, there’s an emergency rope in case anyone falls over and everything. Didn’t you say this was the quickest way?”

The fraying rope was affixed over a pulley, put in place decades ago, it seemed, when the shamans first began using this trail to get to the basin.

“Yes, I suppose, if we go one at a time I can supervise to make sure nothing happens,” Professor Song says, a little unhappily.

The tree trunk was clearly rotting; if it hadn’t been found in the presence of moisture and fungi before, it certainly had now, entire sections browned and decaying. Seungcheol- _hyung_ navigates the disintegrating portions by testing them with his weight first, before sliding across the solid bits of wood, and one by one, the six other older students climb over the makeshift bridge, each releasing a breath when they reach the other side, before climbing around a jagged boulder to reach the western cliff of the island, and disappearing from view.

“Professor, maybe you should go ahead now, while there’s still someone here on this side, in case, um.”

“Well, alright, if you insist,” Professor Song says, although he doesn’t look unhappy about it at all. His knees are creaky when he clamours on top of the tree, and his aging spine trembles with nerves as he shuffles over.

When he makes it across, it’s Jihoon’s turn. Jihoon, whose insouciance means he doesn’t hold out his arms for balance, or even really look where he’s going. Jihoon, whose foot slips from lack of care and wobbles.

In a flash, Wonwoo’s hopped up onto the fallen tree and yanking at Jihoon’s trouser leg with his teeth, suddenly in the form of a sleek black cat and steadying him. He’s not sure if it’s just the heightened senses that come with his animal spirit, but Jihoon’s breathing sounds heavier than usual as they crawl to the other side in silence.

Wonwoo Shifts back into human form as soon as they’re over, panting.

“Oh,” Professor Song says, looking behind him to see if the others had noticed. “I guess we’ve figured out your trigger?”

The _halmeoni_ at the _ssitgim-gut_ was right. You don’t know fear until someone you know almost dies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo’s still grumbling about Jihoon being a careless dumbass when they reach the basin, having descended down an incredibly steep portion of the coast to the dense _dongbaek dongsan_. The quibbling makes up for the slowly building self-satisfaction at finally getting the Shift out of his own free will, and he’s anxious to test himself further, once he’s alone and he’s not being compressed by forest.

Where the rest of the island still has sounds of nature – moving water, snake rattles, birdsong – this area is a complete deadzone. There’s silence and plants, and then more plants. Wherever the animals are, they’re silent, or too small to make noise, like the plankton in the dormant pond. When they speak, their voices also sound muted, not just because they’re talking quietly but the interference of sound waves by how closely the trees are packed together means their words simply don’t carry. The soil underfoot is different as well, rich and moist the way all the soil was on the island, but firmer, as if hinting to the solid rock underneath.

All of the rainwater in Jeju goes through the soil to the lava tubes underneath, seeping slowly between the cracks to reach their massive groundwater aquifers. The percolated water was collected and treated mostly through physical filtration, although more recently there have been chemicals added against the sulfur in the rains, and used abundantly by the island’s inhabitants. They were surrounded by saltwater, sure, but no one ever feared that they’d run out of freshwater to cook rice.

Even with the high reabsorption of the water, however, the _Gotjawal_ forest was well known to magicians for housing the water basin they now approached, which sprung run-off from the tree canopies and plant litter, through a hollow opening of porous igneous rock, formed from a cooling lava tube long long ago. The water, coming from a high groundwater reserve most likely, pooled clean and clear into a rocky basin below, some long erosion forces scooping out the appearance of a bowl and appearing to the people who found the strange phenomenon as a miracle.

“This reminds me of _Tuck Everlasting_ ,” Wonwoo says, hand on his elbow while watching the professor rummage through his things for a wooden ladle.

They have special jars for this water, to preserve its properties for use in the _baksu_ medicines back at _Gwaneumsa_. The wooden ladle is for each of them to take a drink.

“What?” asks Jihoon.

“It’s this English book I read once, where people drink water from a spring that grants them immortality.”

The water in the basin doesn’t grant immortality but its unique mineral content seems to make it effective for the strongest water-based elixirs and potions. Drinking it supposedly heals you, imbuing your body with enhanced recovery and cell renewal for a time, while cleansing dirt and impurities from the mind and the soul as well. Not eternal life, but, if there was anything Wonwoo learned from that novel, it’s that living forever and disrupting natural life cycles isn’t as cut up as it’s made to sound, so maybe super-healing is the better deal.

He takes a long drink. He’s not sure if it’s the water or the Shifting that makes him feel this invigorated, but it’s a nice feeling, and he’s happy he came on this field trip.

“Do you feel light headed at all?” Jihoon asks quietly. He crosses his arms and looks up straight into Wonwoo’s eyes.

“No. Do you?”

Jihoon tilts his head and inhales quickly. “No, but I do feel kinda _weird_.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Where’s Soonyoung? The initiation rite starts in, like, five minutes.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be on time,” Junhui says cheerily, arms draped over Jihoon’s shoulders.

“I wasn’t worried. And get off me,” Jihoon says, but he doesn’t try to shrug away.

Junhui hums. “He got his _chukjibeop_ license this summer so he’s just been showing off with it. He’ll show up in two minutes and make you all ask why he’s so late so he can impress you.”

“Should you be telling us that?” Myungeun asks with a laugh.

“Hm,” Junhui tilts his head and scrunches his mouth together. “Probably not. Pretend I didn’t say anything, then.”

In the end, when Soonyoung takes a step out of a sudden fold in the fabric of space, air and ground distorted around him like a wormhole before reverting back to normal when he takes another step toward them, Wonwoo doesn’t need to pretend to feel impressed. The man just appears out of thin air, tells them he left Busan seconds ago, of course that’s something notable. He can’t help the little gasp he makes or the step back he takes. The _gashin_ swirl around him nonchalantly but there’s a void that they have to fill in, so he knows he didn’t just imagine the gap in space Soonyoung created.

“What exactly is _chukjibeop_ anyway?” Jihoon asks. He had tightened beside Wonwoo, so he wasn’t unaffected, even though his regular air of indifference had returned in almost no time at all.

There’s a loud throat clearing and spreading of the arms. “The art of land-folding,” Soonyoung begins dramatically, before being elbowed by Junhui in the ribs.

“It’s a little like teleportation,” Junhui says, “or at least I think that’s the best word for it. You kind of bend the earth underneath you while walking normally so you end up in an entirely different place.”

“And you can get anywhere?” Myungeun asks.

“Sure. Might take you more than one fold, but you can probably cross the globe.”

Soonyoung had taken two folds to get to _Gwaneumsa_ , the first from his city in Gyeonggi- _do_ to Gwangju, before a second to the school building.

“How long did it take you?”

“Not that long. It wasn’t _hard_ or anything.”

Junhui elbows Soonyoung again. “It took him all summer. He was still complaining to me up until two weeks ago and only passed his exam last Thursday. The theory is apparently not that bad and you can pick it all up from the textbook but the practical bit is understandably challenging.”

“Must you ruin _all_ of my fun?” Soonyoung asks with exasperation.

“You know I can’t live without you darling,” Junhui says, a total non-sequitur while he pats Soonyoung’s face.

Wonwoo glances at Jihoon. They don’t have to exchange words to know that they’re learning this land-folding business as soon as possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only a week back into fifth year it’s evident that studying for the _chukjibeop_ license will fall to the wayside. Their fifth year involves studying for normal subject exams – literature, mathematics, and the like – in order to pass the secondary school exams set for them like usual high school students, intended to make them functional in everyday mundane society and maximize integration. But that doesn’t mean their magical training eases up. Instead, all the theoretical and simple magic that could easily be described with short answers on exam booklets turns into advanced applications and physical rituals that take days to prepare. The conceptual work behind them is no easier, Wonwoo has three essays due in the next two weeks to demonstrate his understanding of the intricacies of changing substances back to their original form and how to prevent the transformations from affecting a material itself.

He spends less time than Jihoon on the teleportation stuff also because the headmaster doesn’t stop extra lessons regarding his Shifting. Apparently, even if he can wield the magic just fine, he should still learn the history and ‘what it means to be a Shifter’. Everyone keeps assuring him they’re his powers to choose what to do with, but the more they say it the more he senses that the abilities are responsibilities, and he feels ever obliged to communicate with the spirit realm, anchor them the way only the cat knows how.

When he gets back to the dorms, he’s ready to gripe and grouse about the workload with Jihoon, dropping his bag to the ground with a thud and dropping his body into his desk chair with equal commotion. He sighs loudly, then swivels around in his seat, arms hanging limply and head lolling back.

“Jihoonie,” he whines, “I’m exhausted.”

“Then go to sleep,” Jihoon says. His voice sounds hollow and sharp.

“Are you…mad at me?” Wonwoo asks.

Jihoon puts down his pen and slaps both hands over his face, rubbing roughly. He doesn’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He says, “I have a headache,” and then blinks.

Wonwoo starts to laugh because that’s Jihoon’s favourite way of telling someone to stop pestering him, but then sees Jihoon’s smile and immediately freezes. Usually Jihoon isn’t serious about his headaches, or about being bothered. He rotates back to face toward his desk and pulls out his own notes, determined to be quiet and not complain. The words in the textbook pages blur under the stinging behind his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Would it be stupid to sign up? Should I bother to try when Yerinnie and Chanmi will probably want it too?”

They’re in class when Wonwoo spots the application on Myungeun’s desk, underneath a pile of books, and she’s not fast enough to hide it from his sight when he asks.

The shrine is selecting for people to help with the _chaesu-gut_ , the twelve-segment ritual conducted only by female _mansin_. Only the top fifth and sixth year students will get a role, and he hadn’t expected Myungeun to try for a part. She was always ambitious though, even if she seemed more interested in the academics than the ritual ceremonies.

“You wanna wear boys’ clothes?” Wonwoo teases. A good half of the rite involved the women in traditional menswear to represent the male icons in the play-like performance. While dependent on her exact role, it was more than likely Myungeun would be dressed up as a male authority.

“I just think it’d be cool to lead a ceremony,” Myungeun says with a shrug. Her cheeks are a bit blotchy but Wonwoo thinks she’s right. “And isn’t it pretty much normal for girls to wear guy clothes now? We’re not exactly all in skirts and dresses every day.”

“Myungeun likes pretending to be a boy,” Wonwoo singsongs.

She rolls her eyes, not rising to whatever bait he’s trying to reel her into. “Anyway, it’s probably futile. I don’t think I’m going to get chosen, so I’m wondering if I should even apply.”

“Can you stop faffing about?” comes Jihoon’s annoyed voice from Wonwoo’s other side. It shocks both him and Myungeun, who both assumed he’d been sleeping. Jihoon is lying with his face buried in his arms, collapsed over the desk after all. “Of course you’ll get chosen, so just submit and stop wailing. It’s giving me a headache.”

Myungeun sits back, even more surprised, and gives Wonwoo a wide-eyed look. Neither of them can tell whether to interpret what Jihoon said as nice or mean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Jihoonie, Hoon-ah, wait– wait!” Wonwoo finally manages to grab onto Jihoon’s elbow, and spins him around so they’re facing each other.

“What do you want, Jeon?” Jihoon says. He barely opens his eyelids. There’s a dark half-moon under his eyes, which are swollen and Wonwoo can see the individual blood vessels in them, sharp and red against the white. Jihoon looks like shit.

“You look like shit,” Wonwoo says.

“Thank you for insulting my appearance,” Jihoon says, voice tight. “Appreciate it. Any other part of me you want to take a jab at while you’re at it?”

Wonwoo flattens his lips and swallows. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Are you insulting my hearing now? Or is it my intelligence? You were the one who said the words ‘you look like shit to me’, you tell me what you meant if not exactly that then.” For the first time in the conversation, Jihoon’s eyes open fully. There’s a dangerous gleam to them, the ends sharp and his irises shiny. With the furrow in his brows, his whole expression screams ‘on attack mode’ and Wonwoo isn’t sure what he’s done to deserve it.

“I meant you look like you’ve _been_ through shit, you look exhausted.”

“Duly noted. What did you want?”

“Uh, your headaches,” Wonwoo says.

Jihoon inhales sharply. “What about them?”

“You don’t need to bite my head off,” Wonwoo says, shrinking. The spirits move with a murmur about them, vibrating unclearly and unfamiliar with the standoff. “I talked to Junhui and Soonyoung and they brewed a vat of this Chinese medicinal stuff Junhui’s mum uses, some type of tea I think. I left it on your desk, there’s like a whole bucket, you’re supposed to drink it twice a day so.”

“So?”

“So. Um.”

“Wonwoo- _hyung_!”

They both turn toward the sound of the interruption, Wonwoo being assailed with an armful of Mingyu before he can properly brace himself. He staggers backward and shifts his gaze just in time to see Jihoon raise a hand in a wave, wiggling his thin long fingers and leaving Wonwoo to deal with whatever it is Mingyu wants.

“Make it fast, Kim,” Wonwoo says techedly, staring with gritted teeth at Jihoon’s retreating back.

Mingyu gives him a sad pout and blinks slowly. “I thought you were supposed to be supportive of the younger students in their time of need.”

“Yeah? Who told you that one?” It’s not strictly untrue, but it was one of those things that only happened out of the goodness of one’s heart. And right now, Wonwoo’s heart wasn’t feeling particularly kind to anyone, much less the person who had interrupted a very important conversation with someone who kept coming in late after spending all night in a library and then waking up early and disappearing before Wonwoo’s alarm had gone off.

“Soonyoung- _hyung_ ,” Mingyu says with his hands on his hips.

“Then ask Soonyoung to support you,” Wonwoo says, a bit unkindly.

“But it’s, like, serious. And private. Soonyoung- _hyung_ will just tell everyone.”

Wonwoo squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head. He’s not prepared to deal with serious right now, or private. He looks at Mingyu, standing there trying to be imposing while worrying his lower lip between his teeth and gets too filled with pity to just shake him off. He turns so that his hips are no longer facing toward the empty corridor Jihoon disappeared down and he looks at Mingyu, shaking his head once again. “Soonyoung’s good at being serious when you need him to be serious, and he’s not that much of a blab. What is it, anyway?”

“Do I have to say it out here?” If Mingyu chews anymore on his lip, he’s going to hurt himself.

“Well, I guess Jihoonie isn’t going back to our room anytime soon.” Wonwoo sighs, and lets himself be regaled by Mingyu’s _tragic_ romantic woes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s nearing midnight and it’s fucking freezing. Wonwoo yanks the hood of his sweater out from underneath the neck of his wool pullover and slips it over his head. He’s wearing three layers over his pyjamas to fight off the bite of the wind, but there’s nothing he can wear to fight his eyes, can only stretch his entire face to keep them open, shaking himself every so often to return to an upright position. Inevitably he slides into a slouched heap over his notes before repeating the cycle again. He’s spent ten minutes on this one page.

“Lunar date calculations aren’t going to be on the test.”

He doesn’t notice when Jihoon walks in until he’s startled from his trance. Jihoon leans a hip against the edge of Wonwoo’s desk, squinting down at his work. He smells slightly damp and faintly of soap, and there’s a hint of heat wafting off his skin, tinged pink from the hot shower water.

“If they were,” Jihoon continues, “you’d get them wrong anyway. All your numbers are off, you added three and two to become six. You’d better go to bed.”

“Professor Kang listed lunar dates in her list of topics to review,” Wonwoo says stubbornly through a blatantly obvious yawn.

Jihoon shrugs. “She probably thought she was including them when she was making up the review package but they’re not going to be on the exam.”

“How do you know?” Wonwoo asks.

Jihoon shrugs again. He doesn’t say anything and waddles over to the blankets. “It smells weird.”

“Mingyu was sobbing here earlier,” Wonwoo says. He really wants to sleep. Lunar date calculations are supposed to be on the test, but if Jihoon says they aren’t, well, Wonwoo trusts him, and he doesn’t really want to study this stuff anyway.

“Are you telling me Mingyu got my blankets all snotty and you just let him?”

Wonwoo doesn’t even have the energy to sigh. He closes his book and shrugs out of his chair, stumbling over into his own spot and rolling until his head hits the pillow. “You can use mine, I’ll do the laundry tomorrow or something. Make him do it.”

“And what are you going to use? Your mind? Freeze to death?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s not that bad.” Wonwoo’s body unhelpfully shivers on his behalf.

Jihoon lifts up a side of the only clean comforter and makes a hissing noise. “Come here.”

Wonwoo doesn’t need to be asked twice. He wiggles sideways until he’s tucked neatly under the blanket and sighs happily at the warmth.

“Thanks.”

“Why was he crying in here anyway?” Jihoon asks, voice muffled. The blanket covers his whole body, right up to his eyes, and he might be suffocating that way but at least he’s probably warmer than Wonwoo.

“Did you know he had a crush on Seokmin?”

“Thought so.”

“What?” Wonwoo frowns.

“I said, ‘I thought so’. Must suck to be Minghao…your best friend and your roommate… Doesn’t Seokmin like Mingyu back though?”

Wonwoo lifts up a finger. “Wait but, what do you mean you thought so? Why didn’t I notice this? I’m super observant. The astutest.”

“Yeah but you like to meddle in other people’s love lives so I think everyone just keeps it as far away from you as possible.”

“What do you mean everyone? What?”

“So Mingyu was in here moaning on about his unrequited love then?”

Wonwoo scowls at having the conversation redirected. “I think they both know about the mutual feelings, but don’t want to start something when they want to go into such different paths. Mingyu isn’t confident they’ll be able to keep in touch as friends even, complained a lot about how life was unfair and all that.”

“Ch. That’s so dramatic.”

“I don’t know, Seokmin wants to work with one of the shamans here but if Mingyu wants to open up his own restaurant, this isn’t exactly the best place for business.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t see each other. It’s not like everyone has to spend every minute of their lives together and open up a joint _baksu_ apothecary like the two gits in our year. In the real world, most people don’t do everything together.”

“It’s always simpler from an outside perspective, isn’t it?” Wonwoo hums sleepily.

Jihoon squirms uncomfortably under the covers, and in their close proximity, Wonwoo can feel every movement. “No I just mean, when people are clearly fated, what’s the point of pushing each other away?”

“How can you know if they’re fated? Maybe there’s someone out there waiting to be Mingyu’s forever love as soon as he becomes a chef.”

Jihoon wriggles some more. “They’ve been beating around the bush for years.”

Wonwoo laughs. “Maybe that’s a sign that they _aren’t_ meant to be.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Jihoon says quietly. “Guess you’re right.”

“Thank you.”

“For what? Agreeing with you? Ch.”

“For softening up. I know you’re stressed and the headaches are making things worse but you’ve gotten really barbed the past few weeks. It’s nice to know you’re still the same worrywort on the inside.”

Jihoon is silent. He has one hand resting palm up on the pillow, long fingers curved gently upwards. It’s not like he moisturizes are takes particularly good care of them, but Jihoon’s hands, like the rest of him really, are naturally ideal. Born with a brain most people would kill for, immaculately set features, flawless skin, the list goes on.

Wonwoo carefully places his own palm over Jihoon’s and threads his fingers between Jihoon’s. He quickly closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep, willing himself not to think.

After a moment, during which Jihoon doesn’t voice his surprise but freezes up beside him, thin fingers close down over Wonwoo’s own knuckles. He adjusts their position lightly until their hands are loosely clasped together.

He doesn’t want to think, but it’s hard not to. Mingyu had wondered if Jihoon wasn’t too mean to talk about things like someone’s love life to Wonwoo, before unleashing a deluge of other thoughts. Jihoon isn’t mean though. He’s what Wonwoo’s mother would call a ‘nice boy’, but a little afraid to show it in case someone uses the kindness in his heart to his disadvantage.

Jihoon still hasn’t replied but when Wonwoo gives his hand a gentle squeeze, he’s certain he feels a squeeze back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lunar date calculations are not on the test. Wonwoo turns around as soon as their papers are collected and looks at Jihoon, nodding off on his desk.

“You were right,” he says.

Jihoon blinks in confusion, and then realization dawns on his face in the slow spread of a smile, his lips flat and dimples deep, looking very much to Wonwoo like a cat who had gotten the cream.

Wonwoo resists the temptation to Shift and bat that self-satisfied smirk away with his paws.

“Why are you so tired anyway? You went to bed the same time as me last night.”

“Woke up a lot,” Jihoon says tightly, letting his eyes close.

“Ooh, does that mean nightmares?” Myungeun asks. She peers up from working her way through a banana, pilfered from breakfast in her bag when none of the kitchen staff were working.

“What do your dreams consist of?” Wonwoo asks defensively. “Aren’t they all nightmares about you not getting chosen for the _chaesu-gut_?”

Deep lines form in Jihoon’s forehead at the sound of Myungeun choking on her food, and he sighs. “Stop worrying about it. They’re going to announce today that you’re the fifth year participating so just be a bit more patient.”

Myungeun thumps a hand against her sternum to stop the coughing. “You can’t just say stuff like that,” she squeaks, “you’ll give me false hope!”

“Park Myungeun? Is there a Park Myungeun in this class?” Kim Namjoo, a sixth year, pops her head through the doorframe of the room, a slip of paper in her hand, shouting over the din of students rushing to compare answers.

Myungeun says “here!” in an even squeakier voice than before.

“Well, come on then. We’re supposed to go down to get our _chaesu-gut_ costumes now, and if we don’t leave soon we’ll be late.” She turns to place the paper on the podium at the front of the room. “Sorry professor, I have a class absence letter here from the headmaster.”

It’s only because Wonwoo is sitting right beside her, but he has to clap a hand over his ear at the high pitched squeal Myungeun makes.

“How’d you know?” Wonwoo asks, still wincing at Myungeun’s shriek.

Jihoon closes his eyes. “Already saw it,” he murmurs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Chaesu-gut_ , not falling under the usual guise of praying to the gods for good harvest or health, brings a bright smile to everyone who watches the ceremony. The vivid colors, fancy props, and almost garish musical accompaniment are lively instead of sombre, loud and playful instead of dazed and vacuous. Something about freeing gender roles by wearing traditional outfits of the opposite sex also frees the spirit and the spirits, within and surrounding. Decorations flap buoyantly in the wind and students chatter about today’s performance for good luck.

It would be a lovely perfect day if it weren’t for the fact that the bitter cold stings any exposed skin, late in the evening when the sun has set early for her longer midwinter rests. Wonwoo huddles toward his right, where Jihoon has fallen asleep on his shoulder, hair spread over the puffy bulk of Wonwoo’s jacket. Jihoon’s arms are crossed, and Wonwoo has to carefully pry them away from his chest to sneak an arm around Jihoon’s bicep, using him and his body warmth as a shield against the wind.

The heat from the bonfire brushes gently against his face when the flames billow in their direction, but for the most part they’re sitting too far away to be warmed, closer to the stage to support Myungeun.

Wonwoo raises one arm, hand balled up into a fist and tucked inside the sleeve, and shakes it a little in Myungeun’s direction, before dropping his hand back to his stomach.

“It’s cold,” Jihoon mumbles, waking up with the sound of the _janggu_ beating slowly and softly ahead of the performers’ entrances. “Wish we could sneak in a warming charm.”

Despite now going through his fifth year in the magical world, Wonwoo continues to forget there’s magic for that kind of thing. Jihoon adapted much faster, or had a better memory. The possibilities for magic use, however, are quelled by the ambient magic for the ritual, where all other spells – including the one Professor Park uses to keep up an appearance of not balding, without it the strands barely cover his head he’s so obviously thinning – must be cancelled so as to not disrupt the carefully woven fabric of enchantments setting the stage.

Wonwoo dislodges his arm from Jihoon’s and wraps it around Jihoon’s shoulder, pulling him in tighter.

“I should have brought a blanket,” he says. His knees bounce up and down, moving to keep from freezing in place.

Once the ceremony gets fully underway, the frigid temperatures can be easily discarded to the back of the mind in favour of interacting with the _mansin_ who loudly project call-and-response songs into the audience, incorporating their hoots and hollers into the dynamic storyline. The familiar _gashin_ coax the _pyolsang_ into a game of tag, the spirits chasing each other in the unfamiliar human universe after living presumably in a very sombre other world.

Myungeun parodies a tax collector, wearing an enormous _gat_ on her head and stroking a costume beard for effect. She makes scandalous jokes she’d never otherwise be permitted to speak in front of so many professors, but the bawdy humor is par the course for the _chaesu-gut_ , and she even gets to argue with Professor Park about who looks better in cylindrical wide-brimmed hat.

Jihoon laughs at her smacking a wooden fan in her palm, telling Professor Park off for talking back to her. The teachers aren’t supposed to take what’s said in the rite against their students in their coursework but it’s hard to imagine the seething face of Professor Park not marking her down henceforth.

“It’s not so cold anymore,” Jihoon says.

Wonwoo can feel the air move when Jihoon speaks, his cheek pressed to the sensitive skin at Wonwoo’s neck. He shivers.

“Are you still cold? Here.” And he wraps around Wonwoo tentatively, hand snaking slowly across Wonwoo’s abdomen in a way that only makes him shiver more.

But he’s not so cold, not with the fondness of Jihoon’s gaze insulating him against the harsh chill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo wakes up two mornings later with a stuffy nose and the feeling that someone has rubbed a fruit peeler down the inside of his throat. The fact that he isn’t bleeding out of his mouth seems frankly miraculous.

“This is why I can’t wait to graduate,” he says in a nasally voice. “Magic in university is all academic and theoretical, and I can stop having to perform all these rituals at night when it’s the approximate temperature of guaranteed frostbite outside.”

“It wasn’t even subzero,” Jihoon says mildly, passing him a small cup of tea. He had dropped by Junhui and Soonyoung’s dorm after class to fetch some cold medication, but, as with mundane medicine, medical research in the magical world hadn’t come up with much more than sleeping and staying hydrated either. At least each swallow of the warm tea felt like some part of his insides were being soothed, even if he still couldn’t breathe.

“It was _cold_ , you said so yourself.”

“Alright, hence why I’m still healthy,” Jihoon says generously, taking the empty cup from Wonwoo.

“Are you not looking forward to graduating?” Wonwoo asks.

“Graduating, sure.” Jihoon fiddles with the mug. “I don’t know if I want to do university though.”

“What? I thought you said you were going to continue with school.”

“Yeah…like, law school? In an ideal world I’d back to Busan and be close to my parents. Getting old and stuff. I wasn’t really thinking magic, but…”

“But?” Wonwoo prompts.

“Nevermind. Get some more sleep. I’m headed to the library. If I stick around you might infect me with your germs.”

So Wonwoo sleeps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes up to the sound of the lock unclicking, and a soft creak in the hinge as the door is pushed open.

“Whozzat?”

“You’re still awake?” Jihoon asks softly.

Wonwoo scratches at his scalp, fingers running through unruly strands of hair. “No, you woke me up.”

“Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“What time is it?” Wonwoo asks, swallowing down a yawn.

“Three, maybe four in the morning?”

Wonwoo’s face scrunches up. Remnants of sleep crackle at the corners of his eyes, and he rubs at them roughly. “Why are you still awake? We have class at nine.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jihoon says. “Heh. Could sleep, but it’d be worse than not sleeping.”

There’s a tinkle as something heavy gets dropped, the contact sounding heavy and solid, and then some shuffling noises before Jihoon finally squeezes himself under the covers on his bed roll.

“If you’re really going to class tomorrow morning, you should sleep now,” Jihoon says. “You still sound so congested.”

Wonwoo frowns. He needs to figure out the answer to his question first. What was his question again? He had a question, he’s sure of it.

The spirits flit over his skin, skimming his hair, and Wonwoo returns to unconsciousness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re drinking this stuff?” Wonwoo holds out the small round bottle that was lying on Jihoon’s desk. At the bottom is a sliver of dark purple, the last drop of the _yeongji_ mushroom sleeping draft Junhui and Soonyoung only gave out in small doses. It hadn’t just knocked him out for a day, it’d really messed with the young’uns’ sleeping patterns too.

Jihoon stares at the glass in Wonwoo’s hand with a frown. “Yeah, I am.”

“How? I slept for a whole day when I had it, and judging from our rubbish bin, you’re going through several bottles a week.” The hand on the bottle shakes with the force of his fury. His voice still sounds nasally, even if his nostrils are flared, but Jihoon never sleeps at night, dozes during classes, and has regular measures of sleeping potion? Something wasn’t right and the anger was easier to absorb than worry.

“It gives me four hours of dreamless sleep, no more, no less,” Jihoon says. His frown deepens. “You needn’t be concerned. You were much smaller when you were testing this, the dosage is different for adults.”

“What is going on with you?!” Wonwoo shouts. “Don’t tell me not to be concerned! When you come in at four in the morning, down this, and then shoot out of bed at eight, hell yeah I’m going to be concerned! What the hell is going on?”

Jihoon yells something back, but it’s a jumbled assortment of words, like he’s trying to say ‘mind your own business’, ‘shut up’, and ‘I’m sick of this’ all at the same time. Realizing that his thoughts are too tangled, he shakes his head and sighs loudly. He sits. Scrubs his face with his hands. Sighs again. “You’d better sit down too, I don’t think this is going to be cleared up quickly.”

Wonwoo drops into his chair and waits.

“It started off as just the headaches, and I thought I was hearing voices or something, becoming you with all your _gashin_ hullabaloo but it wasn’t something I could communicate with. I just kept hearing stuff before people were saying them for real, like a really delayed echo, and at first I thought I was going crazy. But because I didn’t think it was normal, I started researching stuff in the library, unlike you.”

“Did Junhui and Soonyoung help?” Wonwoo asks tersely. He hates being left out in the dark, and when it’s Jihoon doing it to him, it feels like a stab to his credibility.

“ _Seolmundae_ no, and their headache potions didn’t work either, which made me think of you always scratching, and convinced me there was something else going on. And then it started coming to me in dreams, just, like, this constant avalanche of visions right, I was just seeing snippets of everything. If I hadn’t gone crazy already, the dreams were driving me nuts. And then I remembered when you stupidly took them up on testing this shit back in second year or whatever, and so far it’s working. I don’t sleep for very long, but at least I sleep, and I wake up feeling like I’ve actually slept, not gone through battle.”

“Holy.”

“Yeah.” Jihoon leans backward to collapse against his chair. “Happy now?”

“No.” Wonwoo shakes his head. “Of course not. Have you talked to any of the healers? You can’t just live with this, something’s gotta be done for you to sleep normal hours again. This isn’t healthy, and the fact that you can drink that much sleeping draught is scaring me,” he says, voice small.

Jihoon runs a hand through his hair, the ends cascading around his ears. “I don’t really wanna talk about it. Can’t you guess by what I’ve told you so far? Most of the professors already know, all of them want me to stay on at the shrine for life or something…It’s been a lot, okay, sorry for not keeping you informed about everything while I was trying to figure my own shit out.”

Wonwoo snorts. “Don’t. Remember when Junhui was banished here because Soonyoung was being stupid? Newsflash, you not saying anything makes you just as dumb as Kwon Soonyoung. You think it’d be harder telling me? Imagine how much easier I could have made your life if I’d known. That you’re what, a Seer?” Wonwoo shakes his head. “No, you’re a self-centered asshole.”

“True,” Jihoon says.

“True.” Wonwoo opens and closes his mouth. Opens and closes his mouth again. “Really? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

Jihoon shrugs. “I’ve answered all your questions, haven’t I? I guess the other thing is things are better when you’re, you know, Shifted. The cat kinda keeps all the spirits to himself or something. You do.” Jihoon frowns. “You’re the cat. Anyway, but I know the cold feels worse when you’re in that form so the last few days have been. I don’t know. Rough.”

“You should have fucking said something,” Wonwoo says.

“Maybe.” Jihoon shrugs again.

Wonwoo is getting pretty fed up of his shoulders rising and falling, so he scoots forward and places both hands on either side of Jihoon’s neck, pressing down on the muscle and bone.

“Never had visions of this conversation though,” Jihoon says, looking away uncomfortably. “So I thought it was just something I’d never tell.”

The _gashin_ say, albeit Jihoon can’t hear them, ‘things foretold are not always as they will be’, an echo of a saying Wonwoo’s heard them tell years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once Wonwoo’s cold clears up and his sinuses no longer feel like they’re being pressed to the point they’ll explode if he Shifts, the transforming into a cat thing becomes a regular occurrence.

On weekends, especially if it’s been a particularly hectic week, Wonwoo remains in his cat form between meals, resting in Jihoon’s lap, or on top of his head, or just by his side if there’s no need to do homework. Sometimes Jihoon reads out pages from the textbook and he dictates what he’s learned into his memory, especially if it has to do with the _chukjibeop_ license.

One particularly warm Saturday afternoon, Jihoon shows up to the Seongjong boys’ dorms, letting himself into Junhui and Soonyoung’s room (the big dick sign is still there, all these years later). Inside, something bubbles over a fire, filling the nooks and crannies with a gentle whiff of grassy meadows and wintery peppermint. There’s some sort of stasis spell locked on the fire to keep it at a consistent temperature, and then some kind of blocking spell around that to keep the heat from dissipating into the air.

Soonyoung has his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows anyway, a thin line of sweat beading at his forehead. “If you’re here for peach schnapps, I just gave the last batch away and you’re going to have to wait until the next time we brew,” he says, voice high.

“Hm.”

“Oh Jihoonie! You startled me. Um, peach juice, I meant peach juice.”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. It figures with them successfully running a distillery in the dormitory of a high school. “Please don’t tell me you’re getting younger kids drunk.”

“It’s all above board, don’t worry,” Soonyoung says, a placating smile on his face. “How can I help?”

“Hi Jihoon,” Junhui says, emerging from behind. He notes the cat and bends to feed him a biscuit from his hand. “And you too, Wonwoo, you’re look well-groomed today.”

“Did you just call my cat ‘Wonwoo’?” Jihoon raises an eyebrow.

Soonyoung snickers. “Well, it’s a better name than ‘cat’.”

“Come off it, you don’t really expect us to believe that it’s just a cat, right? Wonwoo and your cat are never in the same room together. And your cat has a Wonwoo-esque distaste for fish, even though most cats love it.”

“Um.”

“Unless you’re going to tell us that Wonwoo is deathly allergic to cats and that’s why we never see them together?”

Jihoon scuffs his feet on the floor. “Um, yeah, how did you know?”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Wonwoo’s sixth and final year at _Gwaneumsa_ starts off more jittery and bundle of nerves than his first year, back when emotion had been eschewed for appearances. Enjoy it, Seungcheol- _hyung_ had told him at his graduation, because it goes fast and it’s really the only time you get to have fun in this place. All of his years at the school have been interesting in their own way, but now that he has an offer at the Incheon Institute for Magic and his hard-earned _chukjibeop_ license, the world opens up at his feet with numerous opportunities to relax. This year, he’s just studying to learn.

The real world, the world outside is knocking on his door. Pounding on it, perhaps. Wonwoo ignores the sound and turns inward, to his thoughts and this sequestered bit of culture and magic, unmarred by the forces of modernization or urbanization.

He takes walks around the school buildings and lawns, remarking at each little detail, a particularly bright butterfly here, some neat rock formations there. The spirits remind him irritably that those things have always been there, but he had simply been too focused over his own nose to notice the beauty of things around him. It’s true. The wooden panelling in the buildings is impressive, and painted with glossy varnish, the furniture in the student lounge spaces strong and sturdy despite years of wear.

Experiencing all of it again in _goyangi_ form is another marvel. Everything rises majestically out of the ground, looming over him. Scrabbling over stone and trees, rushing over flowing water. It’s new and fresh and yet tinged with nostalgia, a sentimentality he didn’t know he had before. But in that corner of the dining hall, he’d almost broken Seokmin’s collarbone in fourth year while he was horsing around with Soonyoung and they hadn’t realized how close Seokmin was, and back in first year, Myungeun had tripped over that step and torn up her knee along the length of a jagged rock which the school had to remove because it cut her so deep.

In some ways, Wonwoo tells the _gashin_ , this school has become home. And, for various reasons, he’s a bit loathe to leave it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you going to listen or not?” Mingyu pushes a pillow right up in Wonwoo’s face, pressing him for a response.

Wonwoo snatches the pillow out of Mingyu’s grasp and smacks him over the back of the head with it. After some more tousling, ending with Mingyu lying face down on the ground and Wonwoo raising the pillow triumphantly over his head, he relents. “Alright, tell me your tale of great romance then.”

“Stop it, you’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little.”

Mingyu pouts. “Look, I’ve never been on a date before okay! And Soonyoung- _hyung_ is kind of Seokgu’s confidant, you know, so I have to resort to you or get weird looks from Jihoon- _hyung_ and him muttering about how he doesn’t care and stuff.”

Wonwoo smiles a little. “What about Junhui?”

“Don’t get me started!” He crosses his arms and huffs so loudly, the bangs covering his forehead flap upward. “He turns _everything_ lewd, or innuendo, or just outright asks when we’re gonna…”

“Gonna what?” Wonwoo prompts, mouth curving into a full smile now.

Mingyu flushes. “ _Hyung_!”

“Fine, fine, I see why he’d be less than favorable. Go on then, how was your date?”

“Thank you! Finally! Anyway, so it’s not like we can just waltz into town or something, and I think Seokminnie was going to die from over-perspiration as it was even when it was as casual as it was, which is silly, don’t you think? We see each other every day anyway, I do his hair, we’ve showered together, like, a date shouldn’t be _that_ different? But for some reason it was, and I was nervous too, and I think it’s probably a good thing that we didn’t go out somewhere fancy or whatever.”

“Where did you go then?” Wonwoo asks, struggling to keep up with Mingyu’s excited rambling.

“Oh! I picked up some stuff in the kitchens, made sandwiches, and we had a picnic out at the edge of the grounds, by the forest. It was a bit cool, but it’s not winter yet, and winter in Jeju, it’s not really that cold.”

“Cute,” Wonwoo says, finding he means it. “That’s sweet. What did you do after that?”

Mingyu beams. “Not much! Talked I guess. It was nice because it was just us, and there wasn’t a chance of being interrupted. And, like, just being close together. We were there for a long time though, it was nearly sunset by the time we walked back. And!”

“And?”

Mingyu giggles behind his fingers. “We held hands on the way back.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “Oh spare me. And what, did you kiss him goodnight before dinner?”

“We made out in the alcove above Janggeum, thank you very much!” Mingyu protests hotly.

He narrows his eyes at Wonwoo bursting into laughter.

“You’re making fun of me again!” He does a very sulky Mingyu thing and crosses his arms and legs. “Just because you don’t have anyone remotely interested in you doesn’t mean you have to be mean to people who are happy okay? You’re such a sore loser.”

Wonwoo snorts, reaches out an arm to mess up Mingyu’s immaculately styled hair. He’s not jealous, if that’s what Mingyu’s implying. Eating with someone, spending hours lying side-by-side, even handholding – Wonwoo doesn’t need a _boyfriend_ for that kind of thing not when he has Jihoon. Jihoon’s probably better than a boyfriend anyway, Jihoon’s—

Isn’t Jihoon kind of already Wonwoo’s boyfriend anyway?

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Are you awake?” Jihoon asks.

Wonwoo supposes it’s too late to pretend otherwise, considering how much fidgeting he’s done. He covers his mouth through a yawn and then nods, with some difficulty, since his head is nestled against Jihoon’s chest and it’s hard to move.

They’re lying on the grass under the shade of a _seoeosae_ tree, its simple leaves flashing red and gold with the autumn season.

Jihoon closes the hardcover in his hand, the one that’s not currently underneath Wonwoo, it’s supposedly some philosophical text but it’s in German and Wonwoo’s English is still only good enough to read not write, so another language is out of the question. “Not Sartre,” Jihoon had said when he’d pressed earlier, which ruffled Wonwoo a little and made Jihoon laugh.

“What did Mingyu want yesterday?” Jihoon asks. “I wouldn’t normally wonder, but their year has been strangely quiet today. Didn’t see them at breakfast either.”

“Hah,” Wonwoo announces, “you’re worried about them. How kind of you to be so concerned about your _hoobae-deul_.”

“Ch,” Jihoon says. He opens his book up again.

Wonwoo relents, patting one hand to Jihoon’s ribcage. He can feel the rise and fall with each inhale and exhale, soothing the way a baby gets rocked to sleep in a cradle. “He was telling me all about his first _official_ date with Seokmin. Fascinating topic of conversation of course.”

Jihoon scoffs. “Better you than me I guess,” he says. He stares out over the grass, in the direction of the cherry trees, voice dim and sounding much further away than he actually is.

“It wasn’t so bad.” Wonwoo hums, pats Jihoon’s chest again. “Hey Jihoonie?” he asks carefully.

“Mhm.”

“So,” Wonwoo says, donning a chipper voice and feeling a little manic, “when are we going on _our_ first date.”

Wonwoo doesn’t really know what he’s thinking or expecting. No, he does know. He’s thinking about that time in first year when the two of them were lying awake in the dark, their beds separate (really, how long had it been since the last time they’d slept apart from one another when it wasn’t summer hols? eons ago, it felt like). When Wonwoo asked if they were friends, and Jihoon had said he thought they were already friends.

It seems so simple, anyway. That Jihoon will say, “aren’t we already on a date?” and they’ll laugh about it, and not ever know when the first time was that they’d stepped beyond the realm of friends, even best friends.

Was it when they first held hands? Was it when Jihoon learned the meaning of self-sacrifice? Was it the first time they partnered for a project? How long ago was it that the way Jihoon looked at Wonwoo had been filled with a soft fondness, and been endeared to him in a way that he never entertained other people? And when did looking at Jihoon’s face first begin to make Wonwoo’s heart race, his thoughts flowing and ebbing with that sense that when they were together, things were _right_?

It’s too hard. It’s too hard to pinpoint it down, just like it’s too hard to define their relationship. The closest Wonwoo could think of for an analogy was the way Soonyoung and Junhui cared for each other, but that was a little different too. Soonyoung and Junhui spun around each other, like a binary star system.

Wonwoo and Jihoon didn’t orbit. They just were, at peace, quiet, calm, still. Together.

And, Wonwoo thinks with his breath catching, his chest and face tight with emotion, probably, _possibly_. It was true for him anyway, that this was love.

“Hoonie?” Wonwoo whispers, his voice wobbling off axis and plummeting somewhere far away, another solar system, another galaxy.

Jihoon doesn’t say anything. He sits up some, so that Wonwoo’s head is more on his stomach than chest, and it makes it easier for him to avoid Wonwoo’s eyes.

“I can take it back, we don’t have to, I didn’t mean, nothing has to change,” Wonwoo says, changing pace quickly. He’s saying things cool and calm, but his heart is cracked into dozens and dozens of pieces, he’s fighting back tears, if Jihoon says something the cracks might splinter apart and he’ll be left there picking them up again while Jihoon looks on but he’s not going to cry. The boyfriends thing isn’t the important bit. He’s said it before himself: Jihoon’s better than a boyfriend.

“You’re not in my visions.”

“I, what?”

“I see my entire life laid ahead of me in my dreams, sometimes even when I’m conscious. I just focus for a moment too long on something and it comes rushing forward, how my father will look ten years from now, when I’ll finish apprenticing with the current fortune tellers at the shrine, even tomorrow’s homework answers. You know that.”

Wonwoo nods and swallows thickly, sitting up as well.

“But when I look at you…No matter how long I look at you, all I see is you. Not where we’ll be in the future. I can’t tell what you’re going to end up doing, you don’t show up at all.”

“Because you see me for how I am, isn’t it?” Wonwoo asks quietly. “Isn’t the feeling like, you know, so you don’t bother expecting? I’ve always wanted to be unpredictable to you.” He laughs, somewhat bitterly.

Jihoon fidgets. “I don’t know what that means. I don’t know if it’s because you can Shift so the spirits are weird about you or if it’s a sign or—”

“—Does it matter?” Wonwoo cuts him off. “Does any of that matter? Forget about what you see, Hoonie, tell me what you feel when you look at me. Is there…Anything?” He can’t help himself. The tears spring up unbidden, lying in the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill at any second.

Jihoon’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Wonwoo stares.

“Feel?” He asks. Jihoon looks up, tears mirrored in his own eyes, blinked back quickly before he can speak. Even then, he sounds choked up. “I feel…Everything. You’re…The entire world can be distilled to just you, Jeon Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo’s eyes are still staring intently at Jihoon when he replies. “Good,” he says. “Because you’re everything too.” And then he leans in and captures Jihoon’s mouth in a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh,” Junhui says, hand freezing on the doorknob.

Wonwoo yelps and Shifts immediately, but it’s too late. Junhui saw, and Jihoon’s hands are still where Wonwoo’s shoulders had been, his chin angled up and with a lapful of cat.

Not terribly difficult to discern what they had been up to.

“So you’ve finally, erm, worked it out then?”

Jihoon hisses at him, eyes narrowed, and doing a better impression of an angry cat than Wonwoo can manage when he _is_ a cat.

“What are you talking about?” Soonyoung asks from behind, pushing Junhui’s shoulders down to get a look.

“They were making out,” Junhui says matter-of-factly.

“Jihoon and the _cat_? I didn’t realize they were into—”

“—Wonwoo, you dumbass. The cat is Wonwoo. He’s just shapeshifted, but you can see how frazzled he is, look at how mussed his fur looks.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung says, sounding a little bit like Junhui when he first opened the door. “But what do you mean finally worked it out? I thought they’d been dating since first year?”

 

 

 


End file.
